iBiiMWjuuwitGKiiuiiuiuiuMnHHUtmiinBnBm 

"NoterBook 


Molt  her 


VIE 


STANLEY 


Note-Book  of 
An  Adopted  Mother 

Experience  in  the  Home  Training 
of  a  Boy 


By 
ELEANOR  DAVIDS 


E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company 

31  West  Twenty-third  Street 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1903 

BY 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO. 


Published,  October,  1903 


ttbe  Utnfcftcrbocftcr  press,  "View  H?orft 


PREFACE 

I  SHOULD  like  to  say  a  few  words  of  explanation 
to  my  readers  before  they  begin  my  note-book. 
It  is  not  a  novel  with  a  purpose.  It  is  a  note- 
book with  a  purpose,  however,  and  I  wish  it  to 
start  its  career  honestly. 

When  I  was  a  young  girl,  studying  in  one  of 
the  most  thorough  kindergarten  training-schools 
in  the  country,  I  was  required  to  keep  a  journal 
in  which  were  recorded  with  unflinching  honesty 
the  results  of  all  my  teaching  under  supervision. 
This  journal  was  handed  in  to  the  Director  once 
a  week,  read,  and  unsparingly  criticised  by  her. 
In  it  I  was  obliged  to  tell  of  the  work  done  with 
my  pupils  during  each  half-hour,  what  the  lesson 
was  intended  to  teach  them,  physically,  mentally, 
and  spiritually ;  whether  I  felt  that  it  was  a  suc- 
cess; if  not,  where  my  failure  had  been  and 
whether  I  thought  I  could  improve  on  it  if  given 
another  trial.  I  was  also  expected  to  write  down 
any  especially  bright  or  significant  remarks  made 
by  the  children.  The  ostensible  purpose  of  this 
was  to  keep  the  Director  closely  in  touch  with  the 
work  of  her  unpaid  assistants.  The  great  good 


550530 


iv  Preface 

of  it  to  the  conscientious  student,  however,  was 
the  habit  of  self-examination  which  it  formed. 
Many  a  time  I  have  come  to  understand  my 
pupils  and  myself  much  better  because  of  the 
quiet  thought  I  was  obliged  to  give  to  our  work 
together,  at  a  time  when  there  were  no  conflicting 
calls  for  my  help  and  no  temptation  to  flurry  or 
impatience. 

It  has  seemed  most  natural,  therefore,  since  I 
left  my  beloved  work  of  training  both  kinder- 
garten children  and  kindergarten  teachers,  to  con- 
tinue in  my  own  home  the  habit  of  earlier  years. 
A  memorandum  pad  on  my  dresser  and  another 
on  my  desk  have  caught  the  hurried  jottings  of 
my  busy  days,  and  when  my  boy  was  sleeping  it 
has  been  happy  and  profitable  work  to  elaborate 
the  hastily  made  notes. 

All  mothers  cannot  do  this,  I  know,  yet  all 
are  meeting  from  day  to  day  many  of  the  prob- 
lems which  come  to  me.  So  it  may  chance  that, 
following  my  experiences  on  the  printed  page, 
they  will  find  their  own  perceptions  somewhat 
quickened,  and  profit,  not  only  by  my  little  suc- 
cesses, but  by  my  failures  as  well.  It  is  a  great 
deal  to  form  the  habit  of  looking  beneath  the  sur- 
face of  the  day's  happenings ;  it  is  a  great  deal  for 
some  of  us  even  to  want  to  do  so. 

There  is  a  second  purpose  to  this  volume. 
All  over  this  broad  land  there  are  homeless  chil- 
dren and  there  are  childless  homes.  It  seems 


Preface  v 

such  a  radical  step  to  take,  this  bringing  into  a 
quiet  and  well-ordered  house  a  child  of  strange 
parentage,  and  there  are  always  so  many  ready  to 
prophesy  evil  consequences,  particularly  among 
one's  own  relatives,  who  become  suddenly  anxious 
for  the  honor  of  the  family  name.  But  one  who 
has  tried  it  knows  that  it  is  not  such  a  startling 
thing  to  do  after  all,  and  if  the  laying  bare  of  her 
own  deepest  experiences  results  in  the  opening  of 
one  more  home  to  some  friendless  child,  she  will 
not  begrudge  the  effort  that  it  costs. 

Because  these  notes  are  written  with  such  hon- 
esty and  are  of  such  a  personal  character,  I  ask  to 
be  permitted  a  nom  de  plume.  The  only  reserva- 
tion I  have  made  is  in  the  matter  of  names. 

ELEANOR  DAVIDS. 


NOTE-BOOK  OF 
AN  ADOPTED  MOTHER 


February  jrd,  1902. — I  have  been  out  to  the 
School  at  last,  and  think  I  shall  remember  the 
walk  as  long  as  I  live.  I  did  not  suppose  I  was 
capable  of  quite  the  sort  of  agitation  which  over- 
whelmed me  on  the  way,  and  it  was  well  that  I 
had  about  a  mile  and  a  half  in  which  to  steady 
myself.  Ernest  and  I  had  talked  it  all  over  so 
many  times  before  really  deciding  to  adopt  a 
child  that  I  should  have  become  quite  matter-of- 
fact.  But  somehow,  when  I  had  reached  the 
town  where  the  unknown  little  one  was  waiting 
for  me  to  find  her,  the  importance  of  the  step 
swept  over  me  again  and  I  wondered  if  it  were 
wise.  Perhaps  our  tranquil  home  and  well- 
ordered  lives  were  to  be  placed  at  the  mercy  of 
some  child  who  would  give  us  no  happiness  in  re- 
turn. Then,  too,  there  was  a  flood  of  memories. 
It  is  not  as  though  we  had  always  been  childless. 

I  wondered  whether  we  had  been  presumptuous 


2  .   Note-Book  of 

to  try  to  understand  God's  will  in  the  matter. 
Still,  we  must  do  the  best  we  can  with  our 
lives,  and  perhaps  He  meant  to  teach  us  that 
we  ought  not  to  live  on  in  our  great  house  just 
for  ourselves  and  for  each  other.  Else  why  had 
He  granted  us  that  father-  and  mother-love  only 
'to. leave  us  childless? 

Well,  we  had  discussed  it  over  and  over  and 
decided  to  adopt  a  little  girl,  and  I  was  to  select 
the  one.  It  was  no  time  then  to  go  over  the  old 
ground.  The  decision  was  made  and  all  that  re- 
mained for  me  was  to  be  very  matter-of-fact  and 
cautious  in  my  choice.  We  wanted  a  girl  about 
two  years  of  age,  healthy,  and  of  respectable 
parentage.  I  did  not  intend  to  let  my  judgment 
be  warped  by  long  eyelashes  or  rose-leaf  com- 
plexions. We  did  not  expect  to  find  a  child  in 
this  State  institution  who  would  prove  excep- 
tional in  any  way.  It  would  be  worth  while  to 
bring  up  an  ordinary,  healthy  one  to  a  normal 
and  wholesome  existence.  Eventually  we  might 
adopt  a  boy  also,  but  we  intended  to  make  sure 
of  having  a  girl  in  the  home.  Then,  too,  there 
was  a  sort  of  half-confessed  jealousy  on  behalf  of 
the  son  I  had  borne.  We  would  have  to  bring 
ourselves  by  degrees  to  having  another  boy  in  his 
place. 

And  now  I  am  back  in  the  home  where  I  am 
visiting,  with  my  plans  all  upset  and  my  mind 


An  Adopted  Mother  3 

rapidly  adjusting  itself  to  new  ones.  There  was 
no  desirable  girl  in  the  School.  It  seems  that 
such  children  are  in  the  greatest  demand  and  the 
supply  is  never  adequate.  Only  the  undesirable 
scraps  of  girlhood  remain  on  their  hands,  although 
there  are  some  two  hundred  boys  of  all  ages  up 
to  sixteen.  A  large  proportion  of  these  are  from 
five  to  ten,  people  seeming  to  prefer  them  younger 
for  adoption  and  older  for  service. 

The  Superintendent  showed  me  through  the 
School.  As  we  looked  into  the  kindergarten  I  saw 
a  five-year-old  boy  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
room  who  struck  me  as  being  especially  prom- 
ising. I  mentioned  him  to  the  Superintendent 
and  was  told  that  he  had  to  contend  against  bad 
heredity.  He  was  called  to  the  door,  and  with 
him  came  his  chubby  chum,  who  was  recom- 
mended as  being  of  good  birth.  I  am  not  impul- 
sive, as  a  rule,  but  the  first  boy,  shy  as  he  was, 
smiled  his  way  into  my  heart.  I  spent  the  morn- 
ing there  watching  him.  He  attended  closely  to 
his  work,  but  whenever  he  caught  my  eye  he 
smiled.  In  the  circle  game  he  rolled  the  ball  with 
more  accuracy  and  less  apparent  effort  than  any 
other  child  there.  Then  I  visited  the  office  and 
looked  up  the  records,  finding,  to  my  delight, 
that  the  Superintendent  had  confounded  the 
records  of  the  two  boys,  and  that  the  one  I  pre- 
ferred had  good  heredity.  His  parents  had  been 
working  people,  but  not  dissipated. 


4  Note-Book  of 

Now  I  shall  write  to  Ernest  and  suggest  our 
having  the  boy  first  and  a  five-year-old  at  that. 
How  quickly  foolish  theories  and  morbid  ideas 
give  way  if  we  open  our  eyes  to  facts!  Here  is 
my  motherly  jealousy  of  another  boy  pushed 
utterly  to  one  side  by  this  little  stranger  who 
looks  and  acts  so  hungry  for  love,  like  Mrs.  Wig- 
gins's  poor  waif  who  "  wanted  a  home,  but  not 
with  a  capital  H." 

And  here  I  am  reasoning  along  a  new  line. 
What  if  a  child  of  two  is  'more  plastic  and  unable 
to  remember  his  old  surroundings?  Surely  I  shall 
be  much  better  able  to  judge  of  the  traits  and 
general  capacity  of  a  child  of  five,  and  is  n't  that 
more  important? 

Stanley  is  rather  too  good-looking  for  my  pre- 
conceived ideas.  That  is  a  drawback  in  my  esti- 
mation. I  have  known  so  many  handsome  men 
who  would  have  developed  twice  as  fine  characters 
if  they  had  only  been  freckled  or  slightly  cross- 
eyed. Still,  he  may  grow  plain  as  the  years  pass, 
or  he  may  possibly  be  kept  superior  to  vanity  and 
self-consciousness.  What  a  good  time  he  will 
have  in  the  big  yard  at  home ! 

Well !  I  think  I  might  better  stop  this  dreaming 
until  I  have  at  least  written  to  Ernest.  I  cannot 
settle  things  alone  for  the  family.  I  am  only  our 
special  correspondent  on  the  field. 

February  Jth,  1902. — A  letter  from  Ernest  this 


An  Adopted  Mother  5 

morning  and  I  was  almost  afraid  to  open  it,  fear- 
ing that  he  would  suggest  waiting  for  a  suitable 
little  girl  to  be  brought  to  the  School.  Instead, 
he  throws  all  the  responsibility  of  decision  on 
me,  which  is  rather  characteristic,  wholly  unselfish, 
and  decidedly  embarrassing.  Now  if  the  boy  de- 
velops into  something  dreadful  I  shall  be  wholly 
to  blame  for  bringing  him  into  our  home,  because 
I  have  said  that  we  will  take  him.  He  is  to  be 
sent  to  us  as  soon  as  we  return  from  New  York. 

April  23rd,  1902. — The  boy  is  here,  sound 
asleep,  and  I  am  feeling  it  a  rather  awkward  situ- 
ation. Ernest  has  not  seen  him  yet,  and  suppose 
he  should  not  fancy  him?  I  have  been  consider- 
ing Stanley's  good  looks  a  misfortune,  but  now  I 
find  myself  wishing  him  possessed  of  even  more 
beauty,  so  that  Ernest  might  fall  in  love  with  him 
at  first  sight.  They  have  sent  him  with  his  flaxen 
hair  so  closely  cropped  as  to  be  hardly  visible, 
and  his  big  brown  eyes  won't  count  for  anything 
when  he  is  asleep.  His  dimples  only  show  when 
he  smiles,  and  he  really  does  not  look  like  an  at- 
tractive child  at  present. 

We  have  been  waiting  most  impatiently  for 
him,  and  the  advance  telegram  came  only  this 
noon.  I  went  out  immediately  afterward  to  tell 
some  of  my  friends  that  we  were  to  adopt  a  child. 
We  have  kept  our  plans  very  closely  to  ourselves, 
thinking  that  people  would  be  less  wet-blanketty 


6  Note-Book  of 

in  their  remarks  if  they  knew  that  we  were  quite 
committed  to  the  experiment.  In  all  I  told  half 
a  dozen  of  my  most  intimate  friends.  The  mothers 
among  them  were  delighted  and  congratulatory, 
yet  even  these  I  saw  casting  sidelong  glances  at 
their  own  darlings,  as  though  thinking  what  a 
different  relationship  it  would  be.  Most  of  the 
childless  ones  said  that  it  was  a  sweet  thing  to  do, 
but  they  thought  I  would  find  it  a  great  care  and 
interruption  to  my  regular  work.  They  felt  sure 
that  I  could  write  no  more  books  now.  Only 
one,  and  she  a  primary  teacher  of  long  experi- 
ence, showed  no  mental  reservations.  She  gave 
me  the  heartiest  congratulations  and  prophesied 
great  happiness  to  us  from  the  new  venture.  I 
believe  that  in  some  ways  she  is  the  wisest  of 
them  all  and  has  the  broadest  outlook,  since  she 
is  the  only  one  who  has  for  years  felt  the  sweet- 
ness of  doing  for  the  children  of  others.  I  be- 
lieve she  feels,  as  I  do,  that  the  mere  bearing  of 
the  child  is  a  very  small  part  of  true  motherhood, 
and  that  to  "help  God  fashion  an  immortal  soul  " 
is  vastly  the  sweetest  and  most  important  duty  of 
all. 

Stanley  came  on  the  seven-thirty  train,  having 
been  travelling  all  day.  He  came  toward  me  with 
one  little  hand  clutching  the  finger  of  the  State 
Agent,  and  so  sleepy  that  he  could  hardly  walk 
straight.  The  Agent  said,  "Here  is  your  new 
mamma,  Stanley,"  and  the  transfer  was  made. 


An  Adopted  Mother  7 

There  is  something  about  him  so  appealing  and 
baby-like  that  it  seemed  wonderful  to  me,  the  way 
he  slipped  his  hand  into  mine  and  walked  off  with 
an  utter  stranger  through  the  chill  and  dusk  of  the 
cool  spring  evening.  By  some  mistake  he  had 
been  sent  off  without  an  overcoat,  although  he 
had  a  severe  cold.  In  order  to  keep  him  happy 
on  the  way  he  had  been  allowed  to  revel  in  oranges 
and  bananas,  and  he  had  been  awakened  from  a 
sound  sleep  to  get  off  the  train.  He  was  so  shy 
that  he  would  answer  only  "  Yeth,  ma'am,"  and 
"No,  ma'am,"  to  questions,  yet  he  never  whim- 
pered. The  one  childish  treasure  which  he  brought 
from  the  old  life  into  the  new  was  a  ' ' b'loon  kite, ' ' 
made  of  a  scrap  of  white  tissue  paper,  tied  at  each 
corner  to  a  long  string,  and  with  this  held  tightly 
in  his  other  hand  he  trudged  sleepily  along  the 
short  distance  from  the  station  to  our  home. 

There  was  a  dignity  about  the  little  fellow  that 
made  me  almost  afraid  to  caress  him,  and  when  I 
asked  if  he  wanted  supper  his  only  reply  was:  "I 
want  to  go  to  bed."  He  disdained  assistance  and 
undressed  himself,  as  he  had  learned  to  do  at  the 
School,  climbing  into  bed  and  lying  there  silent, 
scared  but  plucky,  until  sleep  came. 

Ernest  has  seen  him  at  last  and  is  rather  non- 
committal, as  becomes  a  business  man  of  long 
experience  and  one  who  "does  not  believe  in  snap- 
judgments. "  Perhaps  he  is  wisely  conservative 


8  Note-Book  of 

in  reminding  me  that  the  child  is  only  on  proba- 
tion for  sixty  days,  and  that  we  must  be  very  sure 
of  it  all  before  we  let  the  arrangement  become 
permanent.  He  has  had  no  chance  as  yet  to  see 
what  so  won  me  in  the  little  lad.  And  besides, 
while  he  is  devotedly  fond  of  children,  he  has  had 
but  little  intimate  knowledge  of  them  and  still 
regards  them  from  a  sort  of  confirmed-bachelor 
standpoint,  rather  taking  it  for  granted  that  they 
will  always  be  awake,  clean,  bright,  and  ready  for 
a  frolic. 

April  25th,  1902. — These  have  been  busy  days 
for  me,  but  now  Stanley's  modest  wardrobe  is 
almost  completed.  The  State  does  not  seem  to 
have  equipped  him  quite  as  a  mother  would.  For 
instance,  his  small  satchel  of  belongings  contained 
a  Bible  and  a  tooth-brush,  but  no  night-dress. 
Considering  the  hour  of  his  arrival,  I  think  I  was 
hardly  irreligious  when  I  would  willingly  have 
traded  the  Book  for  one. 

That  cheap  little  Testament  is  his  chief  treas- 
ure, dearer  even  than  the  precious  nickel  which  a 
kindly  drummer  gave  him  on  the  train.  And 
there  the  School  authorities  were  wise,  for  they 
sent  him  out  with  the  firm  conviction  that  the 
Bible  is  the  best  thing  he  has  or  can  ever  hope  to 
have.  He  says  the  Matron  told  him  that  he  must 
never,  never  lose  that,  and  that  when  he  was  old 
enough  he  should  read  in  it. 


An  Adopted  Mother  9 

We  are  still  letting  him  call  us  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Davids,  although  I  think  nothing  could  induce  us 
to  give  the  child  up  at  the  close  of  the  probation- 
ary period.  I  have  an  idea  that  I  will  let  him 
think  he  has  adopted  us  and  that  the  new  rela- 
tionship is  of  his  choosing.  It  seems  to  me  this 
would  put  matters  on  a  very  satisfactory  basis. 
And  if  I  am  to  do  that,  there  must  be  enough 
time  allowed  for  him  to  become  strongly  attached 
to  both  the  home  and  its  inmates. 

Ernest  is  already  his  ideal  of  all  that  a  man 
should  be,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  If  he  can  grow  to 
be  the  same  sort  of  Christian  gentleman,  I  shall 
be  more  than  content.  This  morning  he  said,  "If 
I  just  eat  rings  what  makes  little  boys  grow  strong, 
and  sleep  whole  lots,  then  by  and  by  I  will  be  as 
big  as  Mr.  Davids,  and  then  if  I  have  hair  on  my 
face  wiv  white  steaks  in  it,  I  '11  be  the  same  shape 
as  him,  won't  I? " 

I  have  not  yet  corrected  him  for  misusing  a 
word,  merely  taking  pains  to  use  the  right  one 
soon  myself.  Such  matters  can  wait  until  the 
strangeness  wears  off,  but  he  has  already  begun 
to  notice  differences.  Yesterday  he  said,  "Why 
do  you  always  say  '  I  lie  down  '  when  I  say  '  I  lay 
down  '? " 

I  tried  to  explain  it,  an  almost  impossible  task. 
When  I  finished  he  said,  "Every  boy  in  the 
School  says  '  lay, '  and  don't  you  fink  lying  is  vurry 
naughty? " 


io  Note-Book  of 

He  has  asked  me  if  "pants  and  trousers  are  the 
same  fings?  "  I  said:  "Yes,  only  trousers  is  the 
better  word.  Mr.  Davids  always  says  trousers." 

The  instant  reply  was,  "I  guess  I  will  say 
trousers  after  this."  (To  be  strictly  accurate  and 
try  to  reproduce  his  almost  inimitable  lisp,  he 
said,  "I  geth  I  will  thay  troutherth  after  thith.") 

And  that  reminds  me  of  his  lisp,  which  I  may 
not  have  mentioned  in  these  notes.  It  will  be  a 
matter  of  history  presently  and  should  be  re- 
corded. I  feel  sure  that  it  is  only  a  habit,  for 
once  in  a  great  while  he  gives  the  correct  sound 
to  the  letter  "s."  I  mean  to  take  no  notice  of  it, 
and  only  hope  that  he  will  not  be  teased  and  made 
sensitive.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  begin  on  his  Eng- 
lish, taking  one  misused  word  at  a  time,  and 
correcting  him  faithfully  on  that  until  he  has 
mastered  his  difficulty  with  it.  Then  I  shall  be 
ready  for  the  next.  "Awful"  will  be  the  first 
word  to  eliminate. 

April  28tk,  1902. — Ernest  and  I  are  much  sur- 
prised and  touched  by  the  things  which  people 
say  to  us  about  our  taking  Stanley.  Women 
whom  I  had  thought  decidedly  frivolous  speak 
tenderly  of  him,  and  seem  quite  different  when 
they  mention  some  child  of  their  own  long  dead. 
And  men  who  have  never  shown  Ernest  anything 
but  the  hard,  commercial  side  of  their  characters 
come  in  purposely  to  congratulate  him  upon  the 


An  Adopted  Mother  n 

step  we  have  taken.  One  man  has  been  in  three 
times  to  ask  how  the  boy  is  getting  along,  and 
every  time  he  says,  "I  can't  tell  you  what  my 
children  mean  to  me."  Once  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears  and  he  turned  away. 

But  there  is  another  class  of  people  whose  com- 
ments amuse  me  exceedingly.  These  are  elderly 
women,  whose  usual  remark  is:  "Well,  you  will 
find  it  will  make  a  great  difference  in  your  life. 
You  can't  be  free  to  come  and  go  as  you  used 
to.  It 's  all  right  now,  because  it  is  new,  but 
you  wait  and  see."  One  of  two  things  is  cer- 
tain, either  they  think  me  very  fond  of  my  own 
ease,  or  else  when  they  were  younger  they  be- 
grudged the  sacrifices  incidental  to  rearing  chil- 
dren. Naturally  I  rather  incline  to  the  latter 
view.  It  is  more  complimentary  to  myself. 

One  thing  I  notice  with  pleasure.  Whereas  be- 
fore Stanley  came  Ernest  was  often  reminding  me 
that  he  was  only  sent  on  probation,  when  I  say 
something  of  the  same  sort  now,  he  looks  posi- 
tively reproachful. 

Evidently  our  little  lad  has  been  taught  to  ap- 
preciate the  advantages  of  education.  I  do  not 
believe  in  forcing  children  and  did  not  intend 
sending  him  to  school  until  the  beginning  of  the 
fall  term.  This  morning,  however,  he  opened  up 
the  subject.  "At  the  School,"  said  he,  "I  was 
in  the  A  class  in  the  kindergarten,  ahead  of  the 
B  and  the  C.  Have  n't  you  a  school  here? " 


12  Note-Book  of 

"Yes." 

"Which  way  is  it?  " 

I  pointed. 

"Is  it  very  far?     Can't  I  walk  there." 

"Not  far.     You  could  walk  it  easily." 

"Then  why  don't  you  send  me  to  school? " 

We  shall  enter  him  in  the  public-school  kinder- 
garten in  a  few  days  and  I  think  he  will  do  well. 
His  English  is  very  poor  from  having  associated 
exclusively  with  boys  from  all  sorts  of  poor  and 
illiterate  homes,  but  his  memory  and  reasoning 
powers  seem  good,  and  he  is  quick  and  alert. 

I  am  glad  he  came  to  us  before  he  lost  all  his 
baby  ways  and  got  past  his  funny  little  stumblings 
on  hard  words.  When  he  plays  with  his  animal 
blocks  I  notice  that  the  camel  is  a  cannibal,  the 
antelope  an  envelope,  and  the  boa-constrictor  a 
boom-constructor. 

Peter,  the  cat,  is  an  object  of  great  interest  to 
him,  and  has  now  recovered  from  the  intense 
jealousy  of  an  intruder,  which  made  him  growl 
and  withdraw  in  bristling  dignity  whenever  Stanley 
entered  the  room  during  the  first  few  days  of  his 
stay  here.  When  Peter  slides  the  nictating  mem- 
brane over  his  eyes,  Stanley  says :  "Oh  see !  Peter 
is  looking  cross-eyed." 

Peter  sleeps  most  of  the  time  on  a  lambs'-wool 
rug  under  my  desk,  rising  occasionally  to  stretch 
and  turn  around.  Stanley  has  puzzled  over  this 
greatly,  but  now  says:  "Probly — pro&z^ly,  Peter 


An  Adopted  Mother  13 

wakes  up  so  he  can  go  to  sleep  some  more.  Peter 
likes  to  go  to  sleep." 

My  old  doll  is  a  source  of  great  delight  and  is 
spoken  of  as  ' '  him. ' '  Stanley  says : ' '  He  is  a  very 
nice  dollie.  He  wiggles  his  eyes  so  nicely.  When 
he  gets  alive  I  am  going  to  give  him  my  nickel." 

The  eternal  feminine  hardly  enters  into  his  con- 
sideration. He  seems  to  concede  that  mothers 
and  those  who  stand  in  their  place  are  entitled  to 
feminine  pronouns,  but  all  his  short  life  has  been 
spent  among  boys,  and  dolls  and  girls  are  always 
mentioned  as  masculine. 

May  ist,  1902. — I  had  just  got  Stanley  ready 
for  bed,  with  "smelly  stuff"  on  the  poor  little 
chest,  still  racked  by  the  cough  with  which  he 
came,  when  the  door-bell  rang  and  Ernest  found 
three  May-baskets  there.  Three  little  girls  in  the 
neighborhood  had  left  them  for  Stanley,  and  I 
thought  it  a  lovely  thing  to  do  for  a  child  whom 
they  had  barely  seen,  but  whom  they  were  ready 
to  welcome.  I  wish  they  might  have  seen  his 
delight.  How  he  giggled  and  how  his  big  brown 
eyes  shone ! 

When  I  tucked  him  into  bed  the  baskets  were 
carefully  ranged  beside  him,  and  I  am  sure  that 
never  before  in  his  life  had  he  been  so  enraptured 
as  then.  It  seemed  as  though  his  cup  of  joy  were 
quite  full,  but  when  another  peal  of  the  bell  and 
the  sound  of  scampering  feet  heralded  the  coming 


14  Note-Book  of 

of  a  fourth  basket,  we  found  he  had  more  ecstasies 
in  reserve.  He  sat  up  in  bed  to  receive  it  with 
open  arms,  saying  over  and  over  again:  "Oh, 
ar'n't  they  thweet !  Oh,  ar'n't  they  thweet!  I 
geth  thith  ith  a  thign  thoth  little  girlth  liketh  me, 
don't  you? " 

All  these  things  make  me  realize  how  heart- 
hungry  the  child  has  been,  for  back  of  his  pleasure 
in  any  new  possession  is  always  the  thought  of 
the  love  which  prompted  it,  and  it  is  that  of 
which  he  says  most.  And  who  can  say  how 
much  good  has  been  wrought  by  these  crude  little 
baskets?  Some  of  them  showed  much  patient 
labor  by  childish  fingers,  the  last  being  even  filled 
with  brilliant  tissue-paper  flowers.  That  was 
from  Anita. 

May  jrd,  1902. — I  am  adopted  at  last.  The 
situation  was  becoming  rather  embarrassing  and 
had  to  be  relieved.  Stanley  came  here  happy  in 
the  belief  that  he  was  coming  to  a  new  mamma 
and  papa  as  well  as  to  a  new  home,  and  yet  he 
had  not  ventured  to  call  us  anything  but  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Davids,  and  I  had  not  suggested  his  doing 
so.  This  morning,  while  I  was  making  his  bed, 
he  sat  near  and  visited  with  me.  He  said  some- 
thing about  the  other  boys  who  had  gone  from 
the  School  to  new  mammas,  and  I  said:  "If  you 
could  have  anybody  you  wanted  in  the  whole  world 
for  your  mamma,  whom  would  you  choose?" 


An  Adopted  Mother  15 

I  shall  never  forget  the  half-shy,  half-mischiev- 
ous look  with  which  he  answered:  "Somebody 
what  is  making  my  bed  right  now." 

Of  course  I  was  delightfully  surprised  and  sat 
down  beside  him  for  a  short  cuddle,  telling  him 
that  I  would  love  to  be  his  mamma,  and  asking 
him  if  he  thought  that  he  could  take  as  good  care 
of  me  as  a  boy  should  take  of  his  mother.  He 
felt  sure  that  he  could  if  I  would  just  tell  him 
how. 

Then  I  asked  who  he  thought  would  be  the 
dearest  father  in  the  whole  world,  and  he  promptly 
chose  Ernest,  as  I  knew  he  would.  So  we  sat 
and  visited  and  he  practised  calling  me  "mother," 
which  I  prefer  to  "mamma,"  until  it  came  quite 
naturally.  The  funniest  part  of  the  ceremony 
was  when  in  his  joy  over  my  consenting  to  be  his 
mother,  he  gave  me  a  rapturous  hug  and  said, 
"And  we  '11  love  each  other  whole  lots  of  piles, 
and  I  '11  be  your  little  brother,  won't  I? " 

He  seems  quite  contented  now  to  be  my  "little 
boy,"  but  I  find  that  "brother"  is  the  word  in 
his  vocabulary  which  means  the  most.  And  it 
could  hardly  be  otherwise,  since  brothers  are  the 
only  relatives  whom  he  can  remember  distinctly. 
It  remains  for  us  to  make  two  of  the  sweetest 
words  in  the  English  language  seem  sweet  to  him. 
He  has  been  planning  all  day  what  he  will  do  for 
me  when  he  is  a  man,  but  I  tell  him  that  boys  are 
never  too  little  to  take  care  of  their  mothers  in 


1 6  Note-Book  of 

some  way.  To  his  mind  the  acme  of  devotion 
would  be  giving  me  six  bottles  of  nice-tasting 
medicine  when  I  am  ill. 

He  is  so  radiantly  happy,  now  that  he  has 
fairly  adopted  us,  that  I  am  even  more  sure  of 
his  having  felt  a  certain  disappointment  and  sus- 
pense in  the  days  since  he  came,  but  I  think  in 
the  end  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  him  to  believe 
that  the  new  relationship  was  of  his  own  choos- 
ing. He  says  now  that  he  never  wants  to  go 
back  to  the  School.  He  is  such  a  baby  in  his 
ways  and  yet  so  manly.  Once  he  settles  a  thing, 
he  settles  it  finally. 

Relationships  are  evidently  a  great  puzzle  to 
him.  He  has  invited  my  maid,  of  whom  he  is 
deservedly  fond,  to  be  his  grandfather.  He  is 
also  tutoring  her,  possibly  in  order  to  have  her  a 
credit  to  the  family.  I  had  suggested  his  saying 
"very"  instead  of  "awful,"  so  when  he  heard 
her  say  that  a  certain  fire  "was  something  awful," 
he  said,  "I  fink  you  ought  to  say  that  it  was  some- 
fing  vurry."  He  has  begun  to  consult  me  on  the 
choice  of  words.  To-night  he  asked  whether  he 
should  speak  of  "undressing  quick"  or  of  "un- 
dressing quickly." 

May  1 2th,  1902. — Last  week  was  a  truly  dread- 
ful one.  I  had  expected  it  sooner  or  later,  yet  I 
could  never  have  dreamed  it  would  be  so  bad.  I 
have  been  too  tired  to  record  from  night  to  night 


An  Adopted  Mother  17 

the  happenings  of  the  days,  but  there  has  been  so 
little  variety  that  I  can  easily  write  them  all  up  at 
once. 

The  trouble  has  been  the  waning  influence  of 
the  strict  School  discipline  before  the  altogether 
different  discipline  of  the  home  has  been  firmly 
established.  It  was  bound  to  come,  and  I  have 
seen  so  many  children  pass  through  similar  trying 
periods  soon  after  entering  kindergarten  that  I 
was  in  no  wise  discouraged,  but  I  should  think 
those  who  had  not  been  forewarned  to  some  ex- 
tent, either  by  experience  or  by  friends,  would 
utterly  lose  heart. 

It  is  evident  that  Stanley's  vulnerable  point  is 
his  temper,  which  is  very,  very  strong,  accom- 
panying a  strong  will.  In  the  School  of  over  two 
hundred  children,  Law  and  Order  are  so  much  in 
evidence  that  outbreaks  would  be  rare.  When 
twenty-nine  other  children  in  the  same  cottage 
are  yielding  to  the  same  rules  and  trained  to  the 
same  routine,  there  is  not  much  danger  of  a  nor- 
mal child  making  a  scene.  Corporal  punishment 
is  used  there  in  emergencies,  and  every  child  knows 
that  there  is  a  possibility  of  his  being  summoned 
before  the  Superintendent,  a  man  of  most  kindly 
heart  and  wise  management,  but  whose  awesome- 
ness  is  greatly  magnified  in  the  children's  eyes  by 
his  stature  and  the  deference  shown  him  by  adult 
employees. 

Stanley  came  to  us  a  shy,  quiet  little  boy,  who 


1 8  Note-Book  of 

drooped  his  head  when  spoken  to  and  seldom  re- 
plied more  than  "Yeth,  thir,"  or  "No,  ma'am." 
This  has  been  rapidly  wearing  away,  and  he  has 
naturally  taken  it  for  granted  that  the  greater 
comfort  and  freedom  of  a  private  home  meant 
less  discipline.  One  could  hardly  expect  a  child 
to  realize  instantly  that  it  meant  only  a  different 
kind. 

Last  Monday  morning  he  was  defiantly  disobe- 
dient and  I  promptly  shut  him  up.  I  am  a  great 
believer  in  the  virtues  of  isolation.  For  a  long 
time  there  were  only  angry  screamings  and  pound- 
ings on  the  door.  Then  came  penitent  sobs  and 
a  promise  to  be  good.  Instantly  I  let  him  out, 
and  he  went  back  to  his  play.  It  was  not  many 
hours  before  he  began  experimenting  to  see  just 
how  far  he  could  safely  go  in  the  way  of  wilfulness. 
When  he  reached  the  defiant  stage  he  was  locked 
up  again,  always  in  a  light  room. 

Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  and  Thursday 
passed  in  this  fashion,  with  from  two  to  four 
scenes  a  day,  each  lasting  about  an  hour.  Thurs- 
day morning  I  concluded  that  I  was  making  a 
mistake  in  letting  Stanley  go  back  to  his  play  the 
very  minute  that  he  promised  better  things,  so 
then  I  ordained  that  he  should  sit  in  silence  in  his 
little  red  chair  for  ten  minutes  after  he  had  quieted 
down  and  promised  to  be  good.  This  was  very 
hard  for  him,  and  in  the  afternoon  he  protested 
emphatically.  "You  used  to  let  me  go  back  to 


An  Adopted  Mother  19 

my  toys  as  soon  as  I  stopped  making  a  fuss," 
said  he.  "Why  do  you  keep  me  in  my  chair  now? 
I  said  I  would  be  good." 

"You  said  so  other  times,"  I  answered,  "but 
you  did  not  keep  your  promise  very  long.  Now 
I  want  you  to  take  more  time  to  think  about  it. 
I  shall  try  having  you  sit  still  for  ten  minutes  after 
each  shutting-up,  and  if  I  find  you  are  not  doing 
any  better  I  shall  change  it  to  fifteen.  If  that  is 
not  enough  I  will  make  it  twenty,  for  you  must 
learn  to  mind  and  keep  your  temper." 

"I  don't  care,"  he  muttered,  on  the  verge  of 
another  outbreak,  "you  've  got  to  stay  in  here 
with  me  or  I  won't  sit  in  my  chair,  and  I  guess 
you  won't  like  that." 

"No,  I  don't  like  that,"  I  replied  truthfully. 
And  then  I  had  a  mind  to  try  an  experiment.  I 
did  not  think  that  the  child  could  appreciate  what 
I  was  about  to  say,  but  he  was  tearful  and  upset, 
and  it  might  be  that  just  hearing  somebody  talk 
steadily  and  reasonably  would  help  to  calm  him. 
"Listen,"  I  said.  "It  makes  no  difference  how 
hard  it  is  for  me,  or  how  much  time  it  takes,  or 
how  I  have  to  leave  my  own  work  and  play,  I 
shall  punish  you  every  single  time  that  you  act  as 
you  have  been  doing.  Even  if  I  never  do  another 
thing,  I  mean  to  make  you  a  good  boy,  so  that 
you  can  grow  into  a  good  man.  There  are  a  great 
many  mothers  who  will  not  take  the  trouble  to 
help  make  their  boys  good.  Sometimes  they  are 


20  Note-Book  of 

sick  and  cannot,  sometimes  they  don't  know  how, 
and  sometimes  they  are  just  lazy.  I  am  not  sick, 
I  do  know  how,  and  I  am  not  lazy.  I  expect  you 
to  mind  and  to  learn  to  keep  your  temper.  You 
will  never  be  a  good  man  if  you  do  not,  and  I  ex- 
pect you  to  be  a  good  man  when  you  grow  up." 

All  this  and  much  more  I  said,  and  Stanley 
gave  no  sign.  In  fact  we  had  one  more  scene  be- 
fore his  bedtime,  three  more  on  Friday,  and  one 
on  Saturday  morning.  After  that  he  was  very 
quiet  for  him,  and  frequently  sat  still  in  deep 
thought.  Once  I  suggested  some  rather  active 
game,  and  he  said  :  "I  don't  want  to.  I  am  fink- 
ing about  the  fings  I  am  finking  about." 

At  two  he  came  in  from  a  romp.  "I  want  to 
visit  with  you,"  he  said.  I  listened  attentively. 

"Now,  Mother,"  he  began,  "some  boys  has 
lazy  mothers." 

"Yes." 

"And  when  those  boys  makes  fusses  their 
mothers  gives  them  the  fings  they  want  just  to 
keep  them  still." 

"Yes,  they  do  that." 

"And  sometimes  they  are  fings  what  those  boys 
had  n't  ought  to  have." 

"Very  often. 

"And  then  when  those  boys  grows  up  they 
keep  on  making  fusses  and  getting  fings  what  they 
had  n't  ought  to  have,  and  they  are  n't  any  much 
good  at  all." 


An  Adopted  Mother  21 

"That  is  just  it,  dear." 

''You  would  n't  have  that  kind  of  a  mother, 
would  you?"  (This  very  contemptuously.) 

" No  indeed." 
Neever  would  I. ' ' 

The  interview  was  closed  by  his  hugging  and 
kissing  me  most  rapturously.  He  has  been  per- 
fectly obedient  and  sunshiny  ever  since.  I  know 
it  will  not  last  forever — a  temper  like  his  is  not  so 
quickly  subjugated,  but  a  boy  who  can  take  in, 
ponder  upon,  and  make  his  own,  ideas  like  that 
is  sure  to  win  in  the  end.  Give  him  the  right 
ideals  and  time,  and  stand  ready  to  side  in  with 
his  better  self  in  every  struggle,  and  the  outcome 
is  sure.  I  know  how  often  I  have  had  to  fight  to 
make  myself  do  the  hard  things  which  I  knew  to 
be  my  duty — fight  so  hard  that  I  sometimes  won- 
dered if  it  were  worth  while  to  undergo  so  much 
for  the  sake  of  living  up  to  a  certain  standard. 
Sometimes  I  even  thought  that  I  had  decided  to 
do  the  easy  and  pleasant  thing  instead.  Some- 
how or  other  I  always  find  that  in  the  end  I  do 
the  hard,  right  thing,  but  it  scares  me  and  makes 
me  humble  to  remember  how  difficult  it  was,  and 
I  ought  surely  to  be  charitable  to  children.  Sup- 
pose I  had  not  been  given  the  right  ideals  and 
taught  self-control? 

May  14-th,  1902. — Next  to  taking  children  to  a 
circus,  I  can  imagine  no  better  or  more  enlivening 


22  Note-Book  of 

experience  for  blast  adults,  those  who  have  ever 
felt  a  spark  of  interest  in  either  children  or  nature, 
than  introducing  a  little  indoor  lad,  such  as  mine 
had  been,  to  life  in  the  open.  It  is  such  a  con- 
scious and  intense  pleasure  to  him  to  look  at  all 
the  green  things  growing,  to  listen  to  the  twitter- 
ing and  singing  of  the  many  birds  which  nest  in 
our  trees,  and  to  steal  cautiously  along  after  the 
vigilant  robins  as  they  hunt  the  ever-present 
worms  in  the  lawn. 

Last  night's  shower  and  the  warm  weather  of 
to-day  have  advanced  the  foliage  wonderfully, 
and  this  afternoon  Stanley  came  running  in  to 
tell  me,  "There  is  two  trees  in  your  yard  what 
has  so  many  leaves  on  them  that  they  dest  can't 
hardly  stand  it." 

Unfortunately,  Stanley  is  not  the  only  member 
of  our  household  who  is  following  robins.  Peter, 
our  cat,  has  a  deeper  and  more  epicurean  interest 
in  them,  slaying  not  only  that  he  may  eat,  but 
from  sheer  love  of  the  chase.  Many  tiny  feathered 
victims  are  quietly  buried  by  the  hired  man,  and 
one  must  have  escaped  his  eyes  for  some  days. 
Stanley  found  it  and  came  at  once  for  me. 
"Mother,"  said  he,  "would  you  be  glad  to  see  a 
dead  bird?" 

"Yes,  if  there  is  one  around  I  would  be  glad  to 
know  about  it." 

' '  All  right.     He  is  vurry  dead. ' ' 

We  walked  around  the  house  to  the  nook  where 


An  Adopted  Mother  23 

the  dead  bird  lay.  Pointing  it  out  to  me,  he  said 
compassionately,  "He  is  a  nice,  dear  little  robin, 
but  he  is  vurry,  vurry  dead." 

May  iqth,  1902. — Now  that  there  is  a  plainly 
perceptible  fuzz  on  his  head,  Stanley  has  a  keen 
interest  in  hair.  He  looks  at  his  own  in  the  glass 
many  times  a  day,  and  thinks  it  quite  wonderful 
that  ladies  have  so  much.  "If  ladies  was  to  cut 
most  of  theirs  off,"  he  said  to-day,  "they  would 
look  just  like  me,  and  if  they  was  to  cut  it  all  off — 
Say !  (here  he  became  greatly  excited).  Did  you 
see  that  man  what  was  at  the  kindergarten  one 
day?  He  stood  over  by  the  door,  and  he  talked 
to  me,  and  he  had  taken  all  his  hair  off  on  top  of 
him." 

I  suspected  that  it  was  a  friend  of  ours,  and 
asked:  "Did  you  like  him?" 

' ' Yes, ' '  was  the  answer.  "He  was  a  vurry  nice 
man,  but  he  had  n't  any  much  hair  on  at  all." 

I  suppose  that  hair,  and  in  some  cases  baldness, 
will  soon  lose  their  interest  for  him.  Now  he  is 
only  a  few  weeks  removed  from  the  condition  of 
that  small  boy  who  was  joked  by  his  grandfather 
about  being  as  bald  as  he,  and  retorted  tellingly : 
"Perhaps  I  am,  but  I  've  got  more  roots." 

May  2ist,  1902. — Before  school  this  morning  I 
accompanied  Stanley  to  the  dentist,  to  make  sure 
that  his  teeth  were  is  good  condition  and  to  have 


24  Note-Book  of 

them  polished.  Since  nothing  more  was  called 
for,  he  came  away  convinced  that  dentistry  is  one 
of  the  great  joys  of  life.  May  it  be  long  before 
he  is  disillusionized.  He  thinks  "the  buzzer  is 
such  lots  of  fun,"  and  is  sure  that  he  "can  kiss 
mother  better  with  his  teeth  shined." 

Of  one  thing  I  am  glad ;  he  seems  to  realize  the 
desirability  of  starting  right  in  various  matters, 
and  of  caring  properly  for  his  body.  I  often  see 
instances  of  his  resolution  in  mastering  difficulties. 
He  spent  nearly  an  hour  once  learningto  go  up-  and 
down-stairs  as  adults  do,  instead  of  always  keeping 
one  foot  in  advance,  as  he  had  done  hitherto. 

A  week  ago  he  gave  most  of  one  afternoon  to 
practising  somersaults  on  the  lawn,  being  de- 
termined to  "learn  how  to  do  them  backways 
every  time,"  instead  of  tumbling  over  to  one  side. 
Yesterday  it  was  whistling  which  took  all  his 
leisure.  He  kept  trying  to  whistle,  but  did  not 
get  his  lips  and  tongue  in  the  right  position.  1 
told  him  that  if  he  wanted  to  whistle  he  must 
learn  to  do  it  in  the  right  way,  and  took  time  to 
show  him  the  correct  method.  "I  fink  I  could 
do  it  better  if  I  had  a  glass  to  look  into,"  he  said. 
So  I  gave  him  my  hand  mirror  and  he  went  at 
it,  following  me  from  room  to  room  as  I  went 
from  one  task  to  another,  and  frequently  inviting 
criticism.  Now  he  has  not  only  mastered  the 
correct  method,  but  can  whistle  a  line  or  two  each 
of  several  familiar  airs  without  flatting. 


An  Adopted  Mother  25 

Perhaps  I  am  fussy,  still  I  cannot  see  the  sense 
of  bungling  half  the  things  one  does,  and  I  want 
Stanley  to  acquire  the  same  feeling.  Not  only 
because  the  fellow  who  puts  thought  into  his  work 
and  does  it  better  than  the  other  man  is  the  one 
who  reaches  the  top  of  the  ladder,  but  because 
thoroughness  and  accuracy  are  essential  to  real 
self-respect,  I  mean  resolutely  to  discourage 
bungling. 

May  23rd,  1902. — Stanley  was  one  of  a  family 
of  three  brothers  who  were  taken  to  the  School 
about  fifteen  months  ago,  the  youngest  being 
sent  out  to  a  home  almost  immediately.  Having 
loved  him  devotedly,  Stanley's  heart  is  very  ten- 
der toward  all  babies,  and  when  Mrs.  Richards 
called  to-day  with  hers,  he  forsook  his  play  and 
spent  the  whole  time  of  her  call  caressing  and 
amusing  the  child.  After  she  left  he  said,  "That 
is  a  very  nice  one,  but  not  so  pretty  as  my  baby 
is." 

He  does  not  realize  that  they  grow  up,  seeming 
to  think  that  babyhood  is  a  permanent  condition, 
and  that  his  little  brother  is  a  type  of  all  that 
babies  should  be.  He  says:  "Now  I  will  tell  you 
how  old  fings  are.  Dollies  are  one  year  old  and 
babies  are  two  years  old.  Little  boys  are  five 
years  old,  only  sometimes  they  are  more.  .  .  . 
Was  father  just  five  years  old  at  the  very  first? " 

I    suppose   we   seem  very,   very  old   to   him, 


26  Note-Book  of 

while,  queerly  enough,  we  still  seem  rather  young 
to  ourselves  and  each  other.  Age  is  such  a  com- 
parative, intangible,  inconstant  thing  anyway.  I 
recall  my  mother's  saying  that  as  a  child  she  was 
sure  she  did  not  want  to  live  to  be  forty,  and  I 
remember  shedding  bitter  tears  over  my  own  in- 
creasing age  on  the  morning  when  I  was  nine. 
Give  me  a  fine,  sunshiny  day  now,  on  which  I  can 
go  tramping  with  a  clear  conscience,  and  I  would 
be  willing  to  swear  that  I  am  not  yet  sixteen,  but 
when  my  housekeeper  has  to  forsake  me  for  an 
ailing  relative,  and  a  guest  invited  for  one  day 
brings  a  friend  and  two  trunks  along,  two  of  my 
guest-rooms  being  already  occupied,  and  I  think 
I  might  even  concede  forty. 

May  26th,  1902. — Some  of  our  many  relatives 
in  New  York  City  would  have  been  greatly  edified 
by  the  remarks  I  overheard  this  afternoon.  Anita 
has  been  here  to  play  with  Stanley,  and  they  con- 
verted the  sitting-room  couch  into  a  railroad  train, 
on  which  they  and  their  child,  the  doll,  took  many 
thrilling  trips.  I  sat  in  the  room  sewing,  and 
helped  out  the  illusion  by  whistling  and  choo- 
choo-ing  at  the  proper  times,  besides  imitating 
the  bell  with  more  or  less  brilliant  success. 

Their  favorite  journey  was  to  New  York  City. 
Anita  had  never  heard  anything  about  the  place. 
Stanley  had  heard  a  great  deal  from  Ernest  and 
me.  We  had  naturally  dwelt  upon  what  we 


An  Adopted  Mother  27 

thought  would  most  appeal  to  him,  descriptions 
of  his  newly  acquired  relatives  and  the  joys  of 
Central  Park,  not  realizing  that  the  latter  might 
lead  to  any  misconceptions.  So  I  was  momen- 
tarily stunned  to  hear  the  following  conversation : 

"Here,  Stanley,  you  carry  the  things  and  I  will 
hold  the  baby,  'cause  we  're  there  now." 

"Wait!  Wait  a  minute,  Anita!  Let  me  get 
down  first  and  help  you,  'cause  I  'm  a  man,  you 
know,  and  you  are  a  lady.  Oh,  wait  /  Get  right 
back  in  the  cars  /  There  is  an  elephant  coming 
after  us.  Let  me  get  my  gun.  (Play  this  stick 
was  my  gun.)  BANG!  He  's  dead.  There  's  a 
lion  just  coming  out  of  the  woods.  Ow-w-w-w, 
Ow-w-w-w !  (That  's  him  roaring,  you  know.) 
BANG  !  BANG  !  He  's  dead.  Now  get  off  and  I  '11 
help  you." 

"O  Stanley,  I  am  so  'fraid!  Is  n't  New  York 
awfully  scarey?  " 

"Pooh!  There  's  lots  of  wild  animals  here, 
but  I  '11  kill  them  all.  BANG !  BANG !  BANG !  Now 
they  're  all  dead." 

"I  wish  we  'd  played  you  had  n't  shot  them 
all.  It  was  such  fun  to  get  scared." 

"All  right !  I  '11  unshoot  them.  BANG !  BANG ! 
Now  they  are  all  undead.  RUN  !  There  comes 
a  boom-constructor  now,  and  a  bear." 

May  2Qth,  1902. — Stanley  is  losing  his  pallor 


28  Note-Book  of 

and  acquiring  a  decided  coat  of  tan.  At  the 
School,  and  particularly  during  the  winter,  the 
life  is  too  sedentary  and  spent  indoors.  It  is  un- 
avoidable where  so  many  children  are  together, 
since  all  must  be  called  in  at  the  same  time  to 
make  ready  for  meals,  and  each  must  wait  for  all. 
The  change  in  Stanley  reminds  me  of  nothing  so 
much  as  that  which  we  see  taking  place  in  house- 
grown  plants  that  are  set  into  the  ground.  He 
often  says:  "Oh,  I  am  having  such  a  lots  of  good 
time!  I  don't  believe  any  fellah  has  such  a  good 
time  as  me." 

Story-telling,  which  I  have  always  considered 
my  one  accomplishment,  does  not  seem  to  interest 
him  at  all,  and  I  find  it  rather  humiliating  to  be 
so  unappreciated  in  home  circles.  The  boy  has 
evidently  what  psychologists  call  a  motor  mind, 
for  only  those  toys  which  will  go  interest  him, 
and  he  would  rather  spend  an  hour  in  acquiring 
some  difficult  motion  or  learning  some  hard  feat 
than  in  listening  to  stories  or  looking  at  the  most 
fascinating  pictures.  He  is  remarkably  deft,  but 
cannot  draw  anything.  Perhaps  he  has  not  been 
allowed  enough  material  to  learn  to  express  him- 
self easily  in  that  way.  Most  children  of  his  age 
can  draw. 

He  certainly  "sets  his  mind  on  things  above  " 
much  of  the  time,  for  I  have  to  answer  endless 
questions  regarding  heaven  and  angels.  Most  of 
them  are  such  as  all  children  ask,  but  this  morn- 


An  Adopted  Mother  29 

ing,  he  said:  "When  God  takes  little  boys  up  to 
heaven,  does  He  get  a  doctor  to  cut  their  bodies 
off?  "  I  thought  he  was  grappling  with  the  ques- 
tion of  soul  and  body,  but  afterward  found  that 
he  was  wondering  what  became  of  the  rest  of  the 
boy  when  he  was  changed  into  a  cherub. 

And  that  has  made  me  wonder  who  invented 
the  cherub.  Was  it  some  early  artist  who  dared 
not  trust  himself  on  infantile  arms  and  legs,  or 
was  it  some  painter  who  felt  the  necessity  of 
showing  a  multitude  of  the  heavenly  host  on  a 
small  canvas?  Colonel  Parker  used  to  remind  us 
that  "the  whole  boy  goes  to  school,"  and  I  think 
I  have  a  feeling  that  the  whole  boy  ought  to  go  to 
heaven.  At  least  if  artists  persist  in  portraying 
children  in  their  pictures  of  heaven,  I  would  like 
them  to  look  a  little  more  normal.  The  life  be- 
yond would  certainly  seem  more  attractive  to 
small  boys  and  girls  if  they  did  not  fear  curtail- 
ment of  activity. 

I  once  had  such  a  queer  illustration  of  the  diffi- 
culty of  the  young  mind  in  imagining  that  which 
has  not  been  seen.  It  was  in  the  days  when  I 
taught  Chicago  gamins  in  a  mission  kindergarten. 
Frankie  was  allowed  to  draw  what  he  chose,  after 
doing  the  work  allotted  to  him.  He  drew  a  pic- 
ture of ' '  an  angel  taking  a  little  boy  up  to  heaven. ' ' 
It  was  a  most  elaborate  composition.  The  ter- 
restrial settings  were  drawn  first.  A  garden  was 
there  with  fruit  trees  and  ladders.  A  "papa" 


30  Note-Book  of 

was  walking  in  the  garden,  and,  true  to  the  papas 
whom  Frankie  knew  best,  he  was  smoking  a  pipe. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  and  numerous  stars  were 
shown,  the  latter  with  rather  more  than  the  con- 
ventional number  of  points.  When  everything 
else  was  ready,  Frankie  began  on  the  angel.  The 
wings  were  drawn  first,  probably  because  they 
were  the  salient  characteristics.  Then  he  pon- 
dered long  over  the  head.  Frankie  was  a  boy  of 
remarkable  ability  with  the  pencil  and  an  instinc- 
tive sense  of  perspective,  but  this  puzzled  him. 
When  it  was  done  it  was  the  sort  of  head  which 
he  had  always  associated  with  wings,  and  strongly 
resembled  that  of  a  stork.  A  pair  of  long  birds' 
legs  were  added  and  human  arms,  the  latter  un- 
doubtedly suggested  by  the  need  of  taking  the 
boy  heavenward. 

The  boy  looked  much  averse  to  translation,  and 
perhaps  it  was  not  strange,  for  the  angel  was  lift- 
ing him  by  the  hair.  Could  there  have  been  a 
sadder  commentary  on  the  life  in  which  that  little 
artist  had  been  reared?  Possibly  the  picture  was 
suggested  by  his  hearing  the  last  verse  of  one  of 
our  standard  hymns  sung  in  his  mission  Sunday- 
school.  If  not,  then  what  will  it  mean  to  that 
child  when  he  first  hears  it? 

"  Or  if  on  joyful  wing, 
Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 
Upward  I  fiy." 


An  Adopted  Mother  31 

In  some  such  way,  I  fancy,  as  Frankie's  ideas 
of  angels  were  governed  by  what  he  had  experi- 
enced from  the  mortals  who  cared  for  him,  our 
children  will  form  their  idea  of  the  Heavenly 
Parent  by  what  they  know  of  their  earthly  ones. 

June  i sty  1902. — Another  moral  experience, 
Stanley  receiving  his  first  letter  by  the  noon  mail. 
It  came  from  my  mother  in  "a  nice  little  ante- 
lope "  addressed  to  him.  My  reading  it  aloud  was 
punctuated  with  ecstatic  exclamations  from  him. 
"Oh,  is  n't  it  nice!"  "Is  n't  it  sweet!"  "Oh, 
is  n't  it  lovely!  "  And  after  I  had  finished  I  had 
to  yield  again  and  again  to  his  request  to  "Please 
make  this  writing  read  again." 

At  last,  when  he  had  it  practically  by  heart,  he 
said:  "Now  this  is  n't  a  playfing,  so  I  want  to 
pin  it  up  where  I  can  s'ee  it,  but  where  I  can  get 
it  down  to  hold  sometimes."  Later,  when  he 
and  Anita  were  playing  house  under  the  big 
camper-down  elm,  I  heard  him  reading  it  most 
impressively  to  their  child,  the  doll.  He  wanted 
to  take  it  to  bed  with  him,  but  was  afraid  of 
wrinkling  it. 

All  this  reminds  me  afresh  of  my  own  delight- 
ful first  letter.  It  was  from  an  artist  cousin, 
printed  on  one  side  of  a  two  by  three  inch  card 
and  with  the  daintiest  of  landscapes  pencilled  on 
the  other  side.  I  came  across  it  not  long  ago 
among  some  other  treasures  of  the  past,  and  I 


32  Note-Book  of 

doubt  if  any  later  letter  ever  gave  me  such  utter 
happiness  as  that.  The  moral  of  all  which  is,  that 
I  must  be  careful  to  pass  the  kindness  on  and  do 
as  much  for  other  children,  particularly  sick  ones, 
for  "if  we  make  a  child  happy,  we  both  make  him 
happy  now,  and  twenty  years  from  now  in  the 
remembrance  of  it." 

One  other  incident  I  must  record.  This  morn- 
ing Stanley  played  that  he  was  a  fierce  big  dog, 
and  barked  furiously  at  me.  I  pretended  to  be 
much  frightened,  and  may  have  made  it  a  bit  too 
realistic,  for  he  suddenly  stopped,  patted  me 
penitently  on  both  cheeks,  and  said:  "Poor  dear 
Mother!  Don't  be  so  scared.  I  am  really  only 
a  vurry  little  bit  of  a  puppy." 

June  jrd,  1902. — I  wonder  if  there  is  any  other 
point  in  child-training  on  which  young  mothers 
have  more  trouble  than  on  the  matter  of  truthful- 
ness. I  have  been  struck  by  the  number  of 
anxious  queries  in  home  columns  of  papers  and 
magazines:  "What  shall  I  do  with  my  little  girl? 
She  is  only  five  years  old  and  tells  the  most 
dreadful  lies  already." 

Already  !  As  though  truthfulness  were  natural, 
instead  of  being  acquired !  Now  I  do  not  tell  lies, 
but  I  confess  that  there  are  emergencies  when  I 
have  to  watch  myself  lest  some  polite  falsehood 
should  slip  from  my  lips ;  and  I  have  to  hold  my- 
self closely  to  the  original  tale  when  I  see  that  I 


An  Adopted  Mother  33 

could  make  it  vastly  more  amusing  by  artistic 
touches.  If  any  mother  thinks  it  easy,  let  her 
watch  herself  for  just  one  week  and  see  if  she  does 
not  tell  acquaintances  that  she  is  glad  to  see  them 
when  she  is  not,  or  assure  callers  that  she  "is  very 
well,  thank  you,"  when  she  is  half  ill  with  head- 
ache or  cold. 

And  if  she  finds  herself  guiltless  of  such  decep- 
tion, let  her  see  if  she  does  not  use  unwarranted 
superlatives.  If  a  mother  tells  her  son  that  he  is 
the  dirtiest  boy  she  has  ever  seen,  and  he  knows 
a  dozen  ragamuffins  who  pass  the  house  daily  in 
a  state  of  griminess  to  which  he  never  attains,  he 
thinks  she  intentionally  distorts  truth. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  young  children  have  to 
learn  to  distinguish  between  that  which  is  true 
and  that  which  is  not,  just  as  much  as  a  baby  has 
to  learn  that  fire  is  not  a  plaything.  It  is  worse 
than  useless,  it  is  both  cruel  and  inexpedient  to 
punish  a  child  for  telling  what  he  does  not  recog- 
nize as  a  falsehood.  And  to  develop  the  recogni- 
tion of  and  love  for  truth  is  a  slow  work,  requiring 
much  patience  and  all  the  tact  which  parents  have, 
in  addition  to  the  best  possible  example  which 
they  can  set. 

Children  vary  greatly  in  their  perceptions  of 
truth.  Two  little  sisters  whom  I  know  afford  a 
striking  contrast.  The  elder  is  very  imaginative, 
and  tells  as  facts  the  most  remarkable  tales  about 
her  kitten's  house,  clothing,  and  habits.  The 


34  Note-Book  of 

younger,  in  describing  a  tortoise-shell  kitten  of 
hers,  declared  it  was  white,  black,  brown,  yellow, 
blue,  and  pink.  When  questioned  and  reproved, 
she  became  tearful  and  protested  that  he  did  have 
all  those  colors,  his  eyes  being  blue  and  his  nose 
and  tongue  pink.  This  latter  was  an  unusual 
illustration  of  the  fact  that  children's  ways  are 
not  as  our  ways,  and  that  what  strikes  us  as  a 
falsehood  may  be  strictly  true  from  their  stand- 
point. 

But  how  about  cases  like  the  former?  Imagina- 
tion must  not  be  suppressed,  as  in  the  Puritan 
days,  else  we  shall  rear  a  race  of  narrow-minded 
and  prejudiced  men  and  women,  lacking  in  that 
quality  which  makes  our  inventors,  discoverers, 
poets,  and  novelists.  Indeed,  imagination  is  es- 
sential in  any  walk  of  life,  for  without  it  we  shall 
be  content  to  follow  the  beaten  path,  never  dream- 
ing that  to  the  right  and  left  are  untrodden  ways 
of  richest  beauty. 

With  Stanley  I  am  following  the  example  of  a 
bright  friend  of  mine,  who  alternated  with  her 
small  nephew  in  the  telling  of  fact  and  of  fiction 
stories.  Thanks  to  her  experience,  I  am  teaching 
him  very  successfully  to  distinguish  between  the 
two,  and  he  finds  frequent  vent  for  his  imagina- 
tion in  telling  me  fiction,  always  specifying  in 
advance  that  it  is  such.  I  only  hope  that  he  will 
not  repeat  the  tactical  error  of  that  nephew 
by  inquiring  of  exceedingly  entertaining  guests 


An  Adopted  Mother  35 

whether  the  stories  they  told  at  the  dinner  table 
were  fact  or  fiction. 

It  is  understood  between  us  that  fiction  is  all 
right  if  the  hearer  is  told  that  it  is  fiction,  but 
that  to  tell  fiction  without  specifying  is  lying. 
This  leads  to  an  occasional  piquant  situation. 
Usually  he  begins  in  a  full  voice  some  tale  of 
thrilling  adventure,  dropping  to  a  whisper  after  a 
sentence  or  two  to  say,  "This  is  fiction,  you 
know,"  and  then  proceeding  as  before.  Once  he 
omitted  the  usual  parenthesis  and  told  a  most 
wonderful  tale,  saying  at  the  close,  "Do  you 
think  that  is  fact  or  fiction?" 

"Fiction." 

"Well,  there  is  some  fact  in  it,"  said  he.  "A 
little  bit.  One  cow,  you  know!  " 

Naturally  truth  has  become  the  subject  of  much 
thought  with  my  little  boy.  I  cannot  remember 
ever  telling  him  that  it  is  wicked  to  lie,  but  I  have 
tried  to  show  him  the  mischief  which  is  wrought 
by  falsehood  and  let  him  draw  his  own  conclu- 
sions. The  thing  which  seems  to  impress  him 
most  is  thinking  how  dreadful  it  would  be  if 
fathers  and  mothers  lied,  so  that  little  boys  could 
not  believe  them.  I  have  never  forgotten  the 
pride  with  which  a  six-year-old  pupil  of  mine  once 
said,  "My  mamma  never  fools,"  and  although 
we  have  many  frolics  and  I  often  ask  quizzical 
questions,  I  mean  to  say  nothing  in  jest  which  is 
untrue. 


36  Note-Book  of 

I  was  pleased  the  other  day,  when  Stanley  had 
to  account  for  too  long  an  absence  from  home,  to 
have  him  suddenly  slip  his  hand  in  mine  and  say, 
" Mother,  I  am  afraid  I  am  going  to  tell  a  lie." 
All  he  needed  was  somebody  to  answer  as  I  did : 
"I  am  sure  you  will  not,  dear,  for  you  know  that 
lies  never  help.  They  just  make  trouble."  Then 
I  had  the  whole  truth. 

Next  came  the  hard  question  of  how  to  punish 
a  child  who  had  just  incriminated  himself,  Stanley 
having  visited  where  he  was  forbidden  to  go.  For 
weeks  I  used  to  waver  between  an  inclination  to 
punish  on  account  of  the  original  naughtiness  and 
one  to  condone  the  offence  on  account  of  the  sub- 
sequent honesty.  Now  I  always  ask  him  what  he 
thinks  should  be  done,  and  find  that  he  gives  the 
matter  careful  thought  and  decides  justly,  not 
sparing  himself  in  the  least.  I  suppose  this  would 
not  have  worked  at  first,  however,  for  a  child  has 
to  grow  into  the  idea  of  self-government. 

One  day  I  had  such  a  funny  illustration  of  the 
longing  which  even  the  good  occasionally  have  to 
see  how  it  would  feel  to  be  bad,  that  longing  for 
the  forbidden  fruit  which  has  made  so  much 
trouble  since  the  beginning  of  the  world.  It  was 
when  he  was  going  to  bed,  a  time  when  he  seems 
naturally  to  think  most  about  the  relation  of  God 
and  man.  "Now,  Mother,"  said  he,  "I  want  to 
tell  a  lie  so  as  to  see  how  it  would  seem.  .  .  . 
I  fink  God  will  understand.  Now  —  I 


An  Adopted  Mother  37 

saw  a  dreadful  great  big  bear  in  our  yard  to-day. 
.  .  .  Do  you  believe  me,  Mother?  " 

"No." 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  you  don't,  'cause  you  know 
it  is  n't  true.  But  God  understood." 

He  looked  so  relieved  as  he  said  this  that  I  felt 
sure  of  his  reply  when  I  asked,  "Was  it  really 
much  fun  to  tell  that  lie? " 

"No." 

"  I  did  n't  think  it  would  be.  You  see  such 
things  are  never  fun.  People  are  foolish  some- 
times and  think  it  will  make  them  happy  to  be 
bad,  but  it  never  does.  It  just  makes  them  sorry 
and  ashamed,  as  you  would  have  been  if  I  had  be- 
lieved you,  and  it  is  always  more  fun  to  be  good. 
I  am  glad  that  my  boy  is  the  sort  that  tries  to  be 
good." 

I  sometimes  think  that  our  most  helpful 
"visits,"  as  Stanley  calls  them,  are  those  which 
begin  with  fiction  stories  or  "s'posings."  It 
gives  me  so  much  better  an  insight  into  the  work- 
ings of  that  busy  little  brain  than  I  could  get  in 
other  ways  that  I  am  glad  to  find  him  caring  for 
stories.  It  is  now  easy  for  me  to  "point  the 
moral  and  adorn  the  tale  "  without  seeming  per- 
sonal, and  it  is  much  easier  for  Stanley  to  discuss 
the  failings  of  a  fiction  character  than  those  same 
in  his  own  person.  I  notice  in  him  the  tendency 
which  I  nearly  always  found  in  my  kindergarten 
children.  He  has  the  most  abiding  interest  in 


38  Note-Book  of 

those  stories  which  deal  with  his  own  failings  as 
shown  and  conquered  in  others.  I  wonder  why 
it  is?  Probably  because  it  heartens  him  to  think 
that  such  tendencies  can  be  conquered. 

One  of  his  favorites  is  about  a  certain  chicken 
who  would  not  eat  gravel  because  he  did  not  like 
its  taste,  although  his  mother  told  him  that  he 
could  not  be  strong  without  it.  "If  I  was  that 
hen,"  he  once  said,  "and  my  little  chicken  would 
not  eat  gravel,  do  you  know  what  I  would  do? 
I  'd  kick  down  that  slanting  board  and  tell  him 
he  could  not  come  into  the  tree  to  roost  until  he 
had  eaten  a  whole  stomachful." 

It  was  this  same  story  which  started  him  on 
the  little  end  of  one  of  the  world's  big  problems. 
"Mother,"  said  he,  "how  did  the  first  chicken 
get  hatched?  He  could  n't  hatch  his  own  self, 
could  he?  And  there  was  n't  any  mother  hen  to 
hatch  him."  There  was  nothing  which  I  could 
see  to  suggest  this,  but  of  course  we  ended  our 
visit  that  time  with  the  story  of  creation. 

Stanley's  fiction  stories  are  usually  those  of 
tremendous  fishing  or  hunting  adventures  in  which 
he  is  the  hero.  He  has  not  mastered  all  the  in- 
tricacies of  literary  form,  and  tells  everything  in 
the  first  person  as  yet.  He  gets  his  principal 
exercise  of  the  imagination  by  "s'posing,"  and 
his  interest  in  natural  history  colors  many  of  his 
suppositions.  Here  are  some  of  his  recent  flights. 

"If  I  was  a  kitten  like  Peter  used  to  be,  and  I 


An  Adopted  Mother  39 

was  wet  and  cold  and  hungry,  I  'd  just  come 
straight  to  you  and  you  would  take  care  of  me, 
and  I  'd  cuddle  down  in  your  lap  while  you  were 
writing,  but  I  would  n't  'sturb  you. 

"If  I  was  a  high-hole,  know  what  I  'd  do?  I  'd 
fly  right  up  to  you  and  let  you  tame  me.  Then 
I  'd  kiss  you  on  the  cheek.  Only  I  don't  b'leeve 
my  kisses  would  feel  right,  'cause  my  mouf 
would  n't  be  the  right  kind,  you  know. 

"S'posing  this  world  was  all  water.  We  'd 
have  to  live  in  a  boat.  But  where  would  we  get 
the  boat?  There  would  n't  be  any  boat.  We  'd 
have  to  swim.  Would  n't  the  fishes  eat  us? 
Then  we  'd  have  to  go  to  heaven.  But  how 
could  God  make  angels  out  of  us  after  the  fishes 
had  eaten  us?  He  'd  have  to  kill  the  fish,  I  'm 
pretty  sure.  But  perhaps  He  would  just  put  His 
fingers  down  his  froat.  He  would  have  to  take 
him  out  of  the  water  anyway.  ...  Is  n't 
it  most  time  for  Father  to  come?  " 

June  6th,  1902. — Exchanging  view-points  is 
not  a  bad  idea  for  people  whose  opinions  are  apt 
to  conflict,  and  Stanley  and  I  find  both  profit  and 
mutual  edification  in  it.  Our  first  experiment 
along  this  line  was  suggested  by  his  asking,  one 
day  when  he  was  experimenting  to  see  how  far  he 
could  safely  carry  some  naughtiness,  "Mother, 
what  will  you  do  to  me  if  I  don't  stop? " 

"Suppose  I  were  the  little  boy  and  you  were 


40  Note-Book  of 

the  mother,"  I  counter-questioned,  "what  would 
you  do  to  me?  " 

He  sat  bolt  upright  with  a  giggle.  It  was  evi- 
dently going  to  be  more  fun  to  talk  than  to  be 
naughty.  "  If  I  was  trying  to  make  you  be  good, 
and  you  was  hitting  rings? "  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  let  me  fink.  I  would  say,  'Stanley,  you 
will  make  bad  marks  on  fings  if  you  do  that. '  ' 

"But  suppose  I  kept  right  on?" 

"Then  I  would  say,  'Stanley,  you  ought  not  to 
do  that'  (but  you  know  reelly,  Mother,  you  would 
be  some  bad  if  you  did  n't  stop  the  first  time, 
'cause  you  had  n't  ought  to  make  marks  on 
furniture)." 

"But  suppose  I  did  not  stop  when  you  told  me 
that  I  ought?" 

"Well  .  .  .  then  I  should  have  to  say, 
'  Stanley,  you  must  not  do  that. '  And  then  if  you 
did  it  another  time  it  would  be  a  big  bad  and  I 
would  have  to  lock  you  up." 

"What  if  I  kicked  the  door  and  screamed  after 
you  locked  me  up?  " 

"I  would  n't  let  you  out  till  you  was  good 
again.  Not  anyhow  till  then.  But  it  would 
make  me  feel  vurry,  vurry  sad  and  ashamed." 

"When  I  said  I  was  sorry,  you  would  let  me  go 
back  to  my  play,  would  n't  you?" 

"Not  right  off,  you  know,  Mother.  If  I  did 
you  would  n't  stay  good  long  enough.  I  would 


An  Adopted  Mother  41 

kiss  you  and  say  you  would  learn  to  fight  your 
temper  better  after  a  while,  but  I  would  make 
you  sit  still  ten  minutes  just  the  same." 

I  thought  that  this  would  close  the  conversa- 
tion, but  "hitting  fings  "  was  no  longer  a  temp- 
tation, and  Stanley  wanted  to  follow  out  one 
hypothesis  after  another  to  its  logical  conclusion. 
He  never  proposed  any  more  leniency  than  I  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  showing,  and  once,  after  advo- 
cating some  especially  severe  retribution,  he  said : 
"You  just  try  that  on  me,  Mother,  if  I  am  ever 
that  kind  of  bad  again.  I  fink  that  would  fix  me. ' ' 

It  was  this  latter  remark  which  brought  the 
subject  up  to-day,  because  he  did  start  in  on  "that 
kind  of  bad  "  and  I  reminded  him  of  what  he  had 
recommended.  He  giggled  at  once,  and  promptly 
replied:  "You  just  do  it.  Some  time  when  I  am 
bad,  you  know,  but  I  am  not  going  to  be  to-day." 
So  what  threatened  to  be  a  scene  ended  in  a  joke 
after  all. 

And  this  reminds  me  of  something  which  I  did 
not  record  at  the  time.  It  was  just  after  Stanley 
had  tried  to  kick  me  in  one  of  his  terrible  fits  of 
temper.  He  came  home  the  next  day  with  a  long 
face.  One  of  his  favorite  schoolmates  had  been 
seriously  injured,  and  it  was  thought  could  not 
recover.  I  asked  questions  about  the  accident. 

"He  was  kicked,"  said  Stanley. 

I  looked  sympathetic.  "Who  kicked  him?"  I 
asked.  "Was  it  his  mother?  " 


42  Note-Book  of 

Such  a  look  of  horror  as  came  over  Stanley's 
face!  "  Of  course  not,"  he  said.  "Mothers  don't 
kick  little  boys.  That  would  be  crool." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  I  asked,  in  the  most  im- 
personal manner  possible.  "I  am  glad  that  it 
was  not  his  mother,  but  I  don't  know  that  it 
would  be  any  worse  for  a  mother  to  kick  her  boy 
than  for  a  boy  to  kick  his  mother.  She  might  do 
it  because  she  lost  her  temper,  you  know." 

I  went  on  with  my  sewing,  but  my  little  lad 
stood  conscience-stricken  in  the  corner.  After  a 
while  he  stole  over  to  where  I  sat.  "Do  you  love 
me,  Mother?  "  he  asked.  "I  did  try  to  kick  you 
yesterday  when  I  was  mad,  but  I  won't  ever 
again.  Not  ever,  ever,  ever!  But  would  n't  it 
be  dreadful  if  mothers  did  kick  their  little  boys?  " 

June  yth,  1902. — More  questionings.  ' '  Mother, 
can  God  do  anyfing?  Can  He  ride  a  bicycle  on  a 
crooked  rail-fence  without  tumbling?" 

"I  suppose  He  could,  dear,  if  He  cared  to,  but 
think  how  much  sweeter  and  more  wonderful 
things  He  has  to  do.  Do  you  suppose  He  would 
care  about  that  when  He  might  be  finding  a  home 
for  some  little  child  who  had  no  father  or  mother 
or  home?  You  know  He  has  a  great  many  people 
to  love  and  help,  some  good  ones  who  have  hard 
times,  and  some  naughty  ones  who  are  trying  to 
be  good,  and  He  is  ready  to  help  them  all  when- 
ever they  try  their  hardest  and  ask  Him." 


An  Adopted  Mother  43 

"Course,  yes.  I  did  n't  fink  about  that.  And 
then  there  are  the  babies — the  bran-new  ones — to 
look  after,  and  He  would  have  to  be  vurry,  vurry 
careful  about  them." 

June  1 2th,  1902. — I  have  been  so  perplexed  and 
distressed  over  Stanley's  swearing  that  I  have  not 
been  willing  to  record  it  until  I  could  also  set 
down  something  of  encouragement.  I  have  rea- 
soned that  it  would  be  only  a  passing  affair,  and 
reiterated  to  myself  and  Ernest,  what  I  knew  per- 
fectly well,  that  nearly  every  child,  or  at  least 
nearly  every  boy,  has  to  live  through  this  phase 
of  existence,  yet  it  does  so  take  the  heart  out  of 
one  to  hear  profanity  from  lips  we  love,  even  if 
they  are  childish  lips. 

Still,  I  remember  going  off  by  myself  when  I 
was  a  little  girl  and  experimenting  to  see  how  I 
felt  when  I  said  "damn."  Later  I  read  of  a  boy 
in  one  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  novels  doing  the  same 
thing,  and  I  fancy  that  if  our  memories  were  good 
enough,  and  we  were  unflinchingly  honest  with 
ourselves,  most  of  us  could  confess  to  something 
very  similar.  Yet  we  are  quite  respectable  now, 
and  ready  to  be  horror-stricken  when  our  children 
do  it. 

Stanley  swore  knowing  that  it  was  wicked,  and 
probably  because  he  knew.  It  was  the  fascination 
of  the  forbidden  fruit.  Still,  the  first  time  I 
thought  it  expedient  to  assume  that  he  swore 


44  Note-Book  of 

ignorantly  and  we  had  only  a  very  long  and  very 
serious  talk  about  it.  I  said  I  would  not  punish 
him  then,  because  he  might  not  have  known  how 
wrong  it  was.  He  immediately  wanted  to  know 
how  I  would  punish  him  if  he  did  so  again.  I 
said  I  had  not  decided. 

A  few  days  later  he  swore  experimentally,  and 
at  once  asked  what  I  was  going  to  do  to  him.  I 
was  very  grave  and  said  I  did  not  know  just  what 
would  be  best,  that  most  people  gave  children 
very  hard  whippings  for  swearing,  but  it  did  not 
seem  to  me  this  would  make  a  boy  stop.  I 
thought  a  boy  would  have  to  make  himself  stop. 

"Of  course  if  there  were  no  other  way  of  doing 
it,  I  would  whip  you,"  I  said,  "but  that  might 
not  stop  your  swearing  when  you  are  away  from 
me,  or  from  thinking  the  swear-words  when  you 
do  not  say  them.  It  is  just  as  bad  to  think  them 
as  it  is  to  say  them,  and  God  cares  just  as  much. 
I  believe  that  if  you  are  not  strong  enough  to  keep 
the  swearing-thought  out  of  your  mind  and  the 
swearing-words  off  your  tongue,  I  cannot  do  it 
for  you.  Then  you  would  grow  up  to  be  a  man 
with  an  impure  heart  and  lips.  The  only  way  for 
you  to  do  is  to  fight  such  things  and  ask  God  to 
help  you." 

"But  are  n't  you  going  to  do  a  fing  to  me, 
Mother?" 

"No.  There  is  nothing  I  think  would  cure 
you.  But  I  must  take  care  of  my  own  lips,  so  I 


An  Adopted  Mother  45 

shall  not  let  them  touch  yours  until  you  are  in 
bed  to-night.  By  that  time,  if  you  do  not  swear 
again,  I  shall  feel  that  your  lips  are  pure  enough 
to  kiss." 

Then  what  floods  of  tears  and  what  pitiful  sup- 
plications I  had  to  withstand !  He  offered  to 
wash  them  for  a  whole  hour,  he  asked  if  I  did  n't 
"fink  baff-brick  would  clean  them,"  he  showered 
kisses  on  my  hands,  my  waist,  even  the  edge  of 
my  skirt  and  the  tips  of  my  shoes,  and  it  was  a 
much  tear-stained  and  very  sad  little  boy  who 
finally  gave  up  the  struggle. 

Each  time  that  he  left  me  without  the  usual 
parting  kiss  his  eyes  filled  and  he  hid  his  face. 
At  night  he  begged  for  an  early  supper  and  to  go 
directly  to  bed,  so  that  he  might  "make  the  lips 
right  sooner."  And  when  at  last  he  was  allowed 
to  kiss  me,  he  seemed  to  feel  it  worth  the  hour  of 
play  he  had  sacrificed  for  the  privilege. 

He  has  sworn  several  times  since  then,  and  has 
taken  the  same  sort  of  treatment  for  granted.  I 
began  to  fear  he  would  become  hardened  to  it, 
but  then  the  profanity  ceased,  and  although  I 
have  been  an  unseen  listener  to  some  severe 
differences  with  other  boys,  in  which  there  was 
cause  for  great  indignation  on  Stanley's  part,  I 
have  heard  no  swearing  from  him. 

To-night  I  feel  that  the  battle  is  won,  for  he 
came  to  me  after  such  an  encounter  and  said, 
quite  without  suggestion  on  my  part:  "Mother, 


46  Note-Book  of 

I  never  reelly  meant  to  swear;  but  I  got  to  fink- 
ing about  those  words,  and  somefing  made  me 
cross,  and  then  it  got  out.  But  I  tried  vurry, 
vurry  hard  not  to  swear,  and  now,  do  you  know,  I 
don't  even  fink  bad  words  inside  of  me  any  more. 
I  hear  other  boys  say  those  fings,  but  I  just  don't 
pay  any  'tention  to  them." 

June  i jth,  1902. — I  think  I  shall  yield  to  temp- 
tation by  recording,  lisp  and  all,  something  which 
Stanley  said  to  me  this  evening. 

Both  of  us  were  especially  tired,  and  I  am  sure 
he  would  have  quite  lost  his  self-control  on  ac- 
count of  fatigue,  had  he  not  been  so  concerned 
for  me.  He  made  me  lie  on  my  own  bed  as  soon 
as  he  was  safely  tucked  into  his,  in  the  hope  that 
I  might  catch  a  wee  nap  before  Ernest  returned 
from  his  evening  hour  at  the  store.  ' '  You  blethed 
lady,"  he  said,  "  how  would  you  thtand  it  if  you 
did  n't  have  a  little  boy  to  take  care  of  you? 
Father  would  be  down  at  the  thtore  and  Nettie 
would  be  away,  and  you  could  n't  thleep  a  thingle 
bit." 

June  20tk,  1902. — Just  back  to-night  from  my 
first  outing  since  Stanley  came!  I  really  think 
that  I  would  have  preferred  staying  at  home  with 
the  little  lad,  were  it  not  that  commencement  at 
"our  college  "  is  always  a  previous  engagement  in 
this  family,  so  I  left  him  in  good  hands  and  went 


An  Adopted  Mother  47 

for  three  days.  Besides,  I  reasoned  that  the 
earlier  I  began  to  leave  him  the  easier  it  would  be 
for  all  of  us,  and  I  live  in  so  small  a  place  that  I 
must  go  outside  once  in  a  while  for  inspiration. 

He  was  waiting  on  the  horse-block  when  we 
came  up  from  the  half-past  six  train.  "I  fixed  a 
s'prise  for  Mother  on  the  door-knob,"  he  said,  but 
he  hampered  me  so  with  hugging  that  my  progress 
toward  it  was  slow.  Instead  of  the  toy  which 
I  expected  to  find,  there  was  a  beautiful  great 
spray  of  roses  from  the  garden.  "O,  my  sweet 
Mother,"  he  kept  saying,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are 
home."  And  once  he  said,  "Your  face  is  so 
sweet  and  you  have  kept  it  so  clean." 

I  cannot  help  thinking  how  much  more  the 
home-coming  meant  to  me  because  we  had  "put 
our  fate  to  the  touch  "  and  taken  him  into  our 
lives.  People  say  to  me  sometimes,  in  a  sort  of 
prayer-meeting  tone:  "I  am  sure  it  is  very  good 
of  you  to  take  a  child  to  bring  up.  I  hope  you 
will  have  your  reward  some  day."  As  though  I 
did  not  have  my  reward  every  day!  Why,  five 
minutes  of  our  bed-time  visit  is  more  than  recom- 
pense for  the  care  and  trouble  of  the  day.  Even 
when  the  naughty  times  come,  I  know  it  is  pay- 
ing. It  is  something  to  feel  one's  self  a  helper  in 
the  constant  battle  between  the  forces  of  good 
and  evil,  even  when  one's  part  at  the  time  is  only 
the  tying  up  of  unkind  hands  and  the  wiping 
away  of  penitential  tears. 


48  Note-Book  of 

June  22nd,  1902. — Stanley  and  I  have  had  a  good 
time  this  sunshiny  Sunday  afternoon,  and  I  grate- 
fully ascribe  it  all  to  insects.  What  should  I  do 
without  them?  Ernest  being  out  of  town,  I  wrote 
my  letters  under  the  trees,  thinking  that  I  could 
thus  keep  in  touch  with  my  boy  and  my  mother 
at  the  same  time,  although  the  latter  is  far  away. 
The  air  was  full  of  ants  just  returning  from  their 
matrimonial  flight,  and  the  walk  was  thickly 
strewn  with  groups  of  workers  who  were  either 
awaiting  them  or  caring  for  them. 

Stanley  was  the  first  to  discover  that  some- 
thing unusual  was  happening,  and  when  I  realized 
what  it  was  I  laid  down  my  pen  and  watched  with 
him  for  a  while.  It  was  a  most  thrilling  drama  to 
him,  although  the  actors  were  so  small.  To  see 
the  returning  queens  met  and  caressed  by  workers, 
who  were  helping  remove  the  queen's  wings  while 
they  caressed  her;  to  see  the  tired  drones  vainly 
trying  to  escape  from  the  workers,  who  evidently 
thought  them  useless  save  for  food ;  and  to  watch 
the  general  hurry  and  scurry,  which  still  had  so 
much  of  hard-hearted  method  in  it,  was  quite 
diversion  enough  for  a  couple  of  hours.  I  gave 
him  some  idea  of  what  was  going  on,  and  he  was 
much  impressed  by  the  thought  that  the  drones 
were  so  lazy  that  they  could  not  be  permitted  to 
live. 

When  his  interest  began  to  flag  I  got  him  a 
three-inch  hand-lens  or  reading-glass,  and  with 


An  Adopted  Mother  49 

that  as  a  companion  he  finally  drifted  away  from 
ants  to  caterpillars  and  miscellaneous  insects.  I 
certainly  shall  purchase  him  a  lens  of  his  own,  a 
cheaper  one  than  this. 

I  wonder  that  more  people  do  not  realize  the 
value  of  entomology,  even  that  of  the  most  rudi- 
mentary type,  as  a  recreation  and  education  for 
boys  and  girls.  Most  children  hear  nothing  of  it 
except  in  the  school-room,  where  I  fear  they  some- 
times come  to  hate  the  bee  as  an  unfailing  example 
of  industry.  There  they  are  also  introduced  to  the 
caterpillar  and  the  butterfly,  but  that  is  usually 
all.  They  thrill  with  interest  in  lions  and  tigers 
which  they  will  probably  never  see  save  in  their 
unhappy  and  artificial  menagerie  existence,  and 
they  sing  picturesque  little  songs  about  the  blue- 
bird, the  swallow,  the  oriole,  and  a  few  other 
most  unapproachable  birds ;  but  the  one  division 
of  natural  history  which  is  most  natural  for  them 
is  seldom  mentioned.  Insects  are  around  us  in 
profusion  much  of  the  year,  they  are  easily  caught 
and  kept  in  captivity  for  a  time,  and  there  is 
almost  no  risk  in  the  matter. 

Ponds  and  brooks  have  a  strong  attraction  for 
small  boys,  especially  for  those  highly  blessed 
ones  whose  mothers  can  so  disregard  appearances 
as  to  let  them  go  barefooted,  but  the  real  informa- 
tion which  they  possess  in  regard  to  the  denizens 
of  these  places  is  about  on  a  par  with  their  belief 
that  hair-snakes  have  developed  from  horse-hairs. 


50  Note-Book  of 

I  know  that  unless  parents  have  learned  some- 
thing about  insect  life  before  their  children  are  old 
enough  to  care  for  it,  they  will  have  to  educate 
themselves  as  well  as  their  little  ones,  and  they 
hardly  know  how  to  go  about  it.  It  seems  to 
demand  time  which  can  illy  be  spared.  Some 
parents  actually  cannot  spare  the  time,  but  most 
of  them  can,  and  it  seems  to  me  especially  wise 
to  give  only  children  an  intelligent  interest  in  the 
tiny  creatures  of  their  own  dooryards.  I  was  an 
only  child  myself,  and  lived  for  some  years  in  a 
neighborhood  where  my  playmates  were  either 
too  good  to  be  interesting  or  too  bad  to  be  whole- 
some. Thanks  to  my  having  painstaking  and 
nature-loving  parents  (although  they  were  busy 
people  and  not  particularly  educated  along  these 
lines),  I  was  taught  to  love  and  watch  insects,  and 
passed  many  happy  solitary  days  in  the  company 
of  angleworms  and  beetles. 

It  really  does  not  cost  much  time,  energy,  or 
money  to  show  an  interest  in  insects  and  give  a 
child  an  opportunity  to  identify  and  watch  them. 
Just  the  listing  of  all  he  can  find  in  his  own  yard 
puts  him  in  the  way  of  making  new  discoveries, 
and  some  day  he  will  find  ants  driving  their  flocks 
of  aphids  from  pasture  to  pasture  and  eating  the 
dew-like  secretion  for  which  they  are  thus  kept 
and  tended.  Some  day,  too,  he  will  see  an 
ichneumon-fly  sting  and  paralyze  a  huge  cater- 
pillar, which  will  thus  be  kept  sweet  for  her  babies 


An  Adopted  Mother  51 

to  feast  upon  whenever  they  are  hungry.  The 
ichneumons,  it  seems,  prefer  their  beef  upon  the 
hoof. 

Stanley  has  fully  entered  upon  his  heritage  of 
interest  in  natural  history,  and  I  have  many  times 
known  him  to  play  in  quiet  content  for  three  hours 
with  some  new  insect  which  he  had  found.  He 
will  let  playmates  come  and  go  while  he  remains 
interested  in  his  bug.  Sometimes  he  even  begs 
them  not  to  'sturb  him.  The  other  boys  laugh 
at  him,  and  privately  confide  to  me  that  "Stanley 
is  an  awfully  funny  little  fellow,  he  likes  bugs  so." 
Yet  I  notice  that  when  I  join  their  group  and  they 
are  convinced  it  is  not  beneath  the  dignity  of  older 
persons  to  ''like  bugs,"  they  become  almost  as 
much  interested  as  he. 

One  rule  has  to  be  enforced  in  the  interests  of 
conventional  living.  Insects  must  not  be  brought 
into  the  house.  At  first  Stanley's  enthusiasm 
made  him  quite  often  forget  this.  I  myself  did 
not  particularly  mind,  but  it  must  have  been 
rather  trying  to  my  caller  when  he  rushed  in  one 
afternoon  with  a  glass  jar  half  full  of  tent-cater- 
pillars, crying  exultingly :  "Just,  see  these  lovely 
caterpillars!  Are  n't  they  nice,  though?  First 
I  got  them  in  my  cap,  but  they  kept  crawling 
out,  so  I  found  this  for  them.  I  put  a  whole  lot 
of  grass  for  them  to  eat,  and  they  are  vurry 
happy.  One  of  them  is  sweaty,  so  I  will  take 
him  out." 


52  Note-Book  of 

Of  course  he  took  them  all  out — of  doors — and 
that  very  quickly ;  but  it  had  been  impossible  to 
check  his  rush  of  enthusiasm,  and  as  soon  as  my 
caller  was  gone  I  had  to  go  out  on  the  back  porch 
to  atone  for  my  previous  indifference.  I  found 
him  much  troubled  because  he  had  just  remem- 
bered that  there  were  no  father  and  mother  cater- 
pillars to  care  for  the  little  ones.  "I  fink  the 
butterfly  fathers  and  mothers  had  ought  to  take 
care  of  the  baby  caterpillars,"  said  he.  "They 
ought  to  come  back  and  help  them  change  their 
skins,  anyway.  How  would  you  like  it  if  you 
had  to  change  your  skin  without  anybody  to  help 
you,  if  you  was  a  little  caterpillar? " 

June  2jth,  1902.  —  Abiogenesis  is  the  last  of 
Stanley's  concerns.  "Does  hairs  turn  into 
snakes?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  things  that  are  not  alive  cannot  make 
things  that  are." 

"God  could  make  them,  though,  could  n't 
He?" 

"Yes.  He  could  even  make  snakes  out  of 
nothing,  as  He  did  at  first,  but  now  that  He  has 
them  started  He  does  not  have  to  do  that.  Now 
the  big  snakes  hatch  out  little  snakes." 

"Yes.  But  Mother,  God  could  reelly  make 
them  out  of  noffmg  if  He  had  a  mind  to.  Or  He 


An  Adopted  Mother  53 

could  make  them  out  of  anyfing.     He  could  make 
them  out  of  cloff  or  tin  even." 

June 30th,  1902. — Another  victory  for  Stanley, 
and  another  vindication  of  my  theory  that  the 
person  to  conquer  a  child's  temper  is  the  child 
himself.  Yesterday  was  a  day  of  conscious  recti- 
tude for  him,  and  he  went  to  bed  last  night  feeling 
very  sure  that  he  would  never  be  naughty  again. 
Alas,  how  easily  things  go  wrong ! 

He  awakened  out  of  sorts  this  morning  and 
was  fast  going  from  bad  to  worse.  When  he  left 
the  breakfast  table  he  kicked  and  flung  several  of 
his  playthings  in  the  most  petulant  manner  pos- 
sible. I  was  just  wondering  if  I  could  safely  wait 
until  after  prayers  for  the  seemingly  inevitable 
scene,  when  he  suddenly  turned,  ran  to  me,  and 
said,  "Let  me  hug  you,  quick!  " 

After  a  bearlike  embrace  and  repeated  kisses 
he  gave  a  happy  sigh  and  said:  "There!  That 
temper  is  fighted !  You  know  it  helps  when  I  can 
hug  you.  Now  I  '11  be  good  froo  prayers,  and 
you  tell  God  how  I  fighted,  and  then  I  '11  fix 
rings  right  afterward." 

And  he  did. 

I  am  more  and  more  grateful  that  I  have  ven- 
tured to  trust  so  much  to  the  child's  own  wisdom 
and  strength.  He  has  never  once  disappointed 
me,  and  I  confess  that  several  times  I  have  relied 
on  his  strength  because  I  dared  not  trust  my  own. 


54  Note-Book  of 

With  all  my  experience  and  all  my  training  I  have 
often  felt  unable  to  cope  with  Stanley's  temper. 
Throwing  the  responsibility  of  it  on  him  seemed 
the  only  way,  even  when  he  was  only  a  lisping 
five-year-old  with  the  face  of  a  baby.  I  suppose 
that  I  was  unconsciously  influenced  at  first  by  the 
lifelong  belief  that  "with  every  temptation  God 
also  provides  a  way  of  escape, ' '  for  with  strong 
tempers  there  are  strong  wills  which  can  hold 
them  in  check. 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  that  Ernest  does 
not  seem  more  perturbed  by  Stanley's  worst 
moods,  but  when  I  congratulated  him  on  his 
serenity  he  said,  "I  had  a  very  strong  temper 
when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I  developed  into  a  thor- 
oughly respectable  citizen  in  spite  of  it." 

I  wonder  if  Ernest  ever  howled  and  kicked  and 
fought  as  I  have  seen  Stanley  do?  Of  course  I 
knew  that  he  had  been  a  child,  had  heard  of  his 
whooping-cough,  measles,  and  croup  from  his 
mother,  yet  she  never  mentioned  his  naughtiness. 
Perhaps  she  had  forgotten  it,  as  mothers  are  apt 
to  forget  the  failings  of  their  children.  I  often 
remember  my  own  early  outbursts  of  temper, 
and  how  uncomfortable  they  made  me  and  every- 
body else,  but  in  my  mind  Ernest  is  always  the 
dignified,  self-contained  Christian  gentleman  that 
he  was  when  I  first  met  him  and  has  been  ever 
since.  I  suppose  that  if  we  had  not  both  learned 
self-control,  we  would  hardly  have  grown  to  care 


An  Adopted  Mother  55 

for  each  other,  our  first  meeting  having  been  on  a 
stormy  winter  day,  when  a  matter  of  business 
brought  us  together  and  we  found  ourselves  pos- 
sessed of  diametrically  opposite  views. 

We  have  had  diametrically  opposite  views  on  a 
number  of  questions  since,  as  far  as  that  goes,  but 
it  does  not  seem  to  interfere  in  any  way  with  the 
peace  of  our  home,  and  I  fancy  that  one  carries 
the  point  about  as  often  as  the  other.  Ernest 
feels,  as  I  do,  that  to  have  a  strong  will,  with  its 
incidental  penalties,  is  not  a  thing  to  be  deplored 
if  the  early  training  is  right.  It  is  rather  an  oc- 
casion for  rejoicing. 

July  ist,  1902. — I  am  much  delighted  and  en- 
couraged over  a  little  incident  which  occurred  to- 
day. I  suppose  all  of  us  have  hobbies,  and 
probably  one  of  mine  is  wishing  to  get  the  other 
person's  point  of  view.  In  this  case,  however,  it  is 
quite  the  converse,  a  desire  to  have  the  other  person 
get  my  point  of  view.  It  always  seems  to  me  that 
people  who  possess  that  sort  of  mental  adaptability 
are  much  better  fitted  for  just  and  happy  living. 

This  time  it  has  to  do  with  punishments.  Only 
a  few  days  since,  Stanley  asked  me,  "Mother, 
does  folks  punish  folks  to  get  even? "  and  I  gave 
considerable  time  to  trying  to  explain  the  true 
purpose  of  punishment.  I  felt  that  it  was  a  diffi- 
cult task  with  so  young  a  child,  and  had  little 
hope  as  to  the  results. 


56  Note-Book  of 

This  afternoon  Stanley  came  home  horror- 
stricken  because  a  boy  in  his  school  had  slapped 
a  girl.  He  wanted  to  talk  much  about  slapping 
in  general  and  that  particular  form  of  slapping  in 
which  a  girl  is  the  victim,  for  Stanley  is  nothing 
if  not  chivalrous.  After  a  while  I  said,  speaking 
of  a  feeble-minded  pupil  of  mine:  "I  once  had  a 
boy  in  my  Chicago  kindergarten  who  slapped  chil- 
dren, and  I  could  n't  make  him  stop.  After  a 
while  I  decided  that  it  was  because  he  did  n't 
know  how  it  hurt  to  be  slapped.  Now  what  do 
you  suppose  I  did?" 

"Don't  know." 

"What  would  you  have  done?" 

Prolonged  thought  on  the  part  of  Stanley; 
then:  "Mother,  if  I  had  been  in  your  place  I 
would  have  taught  him  how  it  hurt.  He  would 
have  to  be  slapped  himself — good  and  hard,  you 
know — and  I  would  have  done  it,  even  if  I  did  nt 
want  to. ' ' 

July  jrd,  1902. — I  have  been  face  to  face  with 
the  question  of  slang  for  several  days,  and  have 
been  trying  to  formulate  my  views.  Not  that 
it  is  the  first  time  that  my  attention  has  been 
called  to  the  subject,  but  that  it  has  come  before 
me  in  a  new  way.  I  think  I  will  write  out  my 
present  ideas  quite  fully,  and  then  I  can  see  how 
they  work  out.  Only  a  good  many  of  my  theo- 
ries are  already  proved. 


An  Adopted  Mother  57 

Slang  is  so  universal  and  yet  so  disliked  by 
cultivated  people.  Still  we  must  concede  that 
certain  words  which  start  their  career  as  slang  are 
at  length  adopted  by  the  mother-language  and 
become  useful  words  in  good  and  regular  standing. 
These,  I  fancy,  have  their  future  marked  out  for 
them  from  the  beginning  and  show  signs  of  promise 
and  energy.  Expletives  can  never  win  a  place  in 
a  good  vocabulary,  if  only  because  they  are  tokens 
of  ill-controlled  passions  and  emotions.  Hence, 
and  this  is  to  be  the  first  article  of  my  linguistic 
creed,  my  fight  must  be  against  all  forms  of  ex- 
pletive. Secondly,  and  for  the  same  reason,  I 
must  war  against  the  use  of  all  adjectives  and  ad- 
verbs which  bespeak  impatience  and  ill-temper. 
Next  on  my  black-list  I  shall  place  all  slang  words 
which  seem  unlikely  ever  to  gain  respectability. 

Slang  is  almost  invariably  used  to  convey  an 
impression  of  smartness  and  worldly  wisdom.  To 
make  young  children  feel  that  it  really  produces 
the  opposite  effect  is  often  to  strike  at  the  root  of 
the  matter.  It  does  far  more  than  repeated  ad- 
monitions that  "such  words  are  not  pretty,"  as 
many  mothers  put  it. 

I  remember  an  experience  I  had  with  Edwin 
B.  in  my  Chicago  kindergarten.  He  told  me  one 
morning  that  there  were  "a  lot  of  kids  "  standing 
on  the  street  corner.  I  said  I  would  look  at  them 
at  once,  that  I  had  not  known  there  were  any 
goats  in  that  part  of  the  city. 


58  Note-Book  of 

''Oh,  there  was  n't  any  goats  there,"  he  said, 
"just  kids,  you  know." 

"Kids  are  goats,  Edwin,"  I  replied,  "little 
young  goats." 

"Oh,  but  these  kids  is  just  boys.  They  ain't 
goats  at  all. ' ' 

"Why  did  n't  you  say  boys,  then?  What  would 
you  think  if  I  were  to  call  your  hat  a  chair?  I 
am  afraid  you  would  think  I  did  n't  know  very 
much." 

There  the  conversation  ended.  About  a  week 
later  Peter  said  something  at  our  table  about  "de 
kids  in  our  alley,"  and  I  appeared  not  to  notice  it. 
Instantly  Edwin  spoke  up.  "You  mean  boys; 
you  don't  mean  kids,"  said  he.  "Kids  is  nanny- 
goats,  ain't  they,  Miss  Eleanor?" 

I  agreed  that  they  were  young  goats,  and  Peter, 
crestfallen  and  scarlet,  muttered  something  about 
not  knowing.  Each  one  of  the  twenty  at  the 
table  apparently  remembered  and  told  of  it,  and 
another  slang  word  was  quietly  dropped  from  the 
vocabulary  of  the  place. 

Children  can  certainly  be  led  to  think  concern- 
ing the  words  which  they  use,  and  even  to  enjoy 
doing  so.  Take  any  boy  who  is  old  enough  to 
handle  tools :  these  are  so  interesting  to  him  that 
a  lesson  in  which  they  are  used  as  illustration  will 
be  listened  to  with  respect.  Some  day  when  he 
is  in  a  thoughtful  mood  and  misuses  a  word,  it  is 
easy  to  tell  him  that  to  do  that  is  like  taking  the 


An  Adopted  Mother  59 

wrong  tool  for  a  piece  of  work.  To  say  that  a 
day  is  "roasting  hot  "  when  it  is  only  quite  warm, 
is  like  taking  an  auger  instead  of  a  gimlet  with 
which  to  bore  a  small  hole,  and  to  say  that  some- 
thing is  "awfully  pretty  "  when  it  is  only  pretty 
is  very  much  like  using  an  axe  to  drive  a  tack — it 
is  too  big  and  heavy  a  tool  in  the  first  place, 
and  then  it  was  made  for  chopping,  not  for 
pounding. 

There  are  many  advantages  to  this  way  of 
pointing  a  moral.  It  not  only  makes  the  mean- 
ing more  clear  in  the  first  place,  but  a  lesson 
linked  to  a  child's  favorite  implement  will  be  fre- 
quently recalled  when  he  uses  that  implement  and 
he  will  be  delighted  by  discovering  new  analogies 
and  making  new  comparisons  for  himself. 

Slang  is  so  insidious!  We  think  that  we  are 
free  from  it,  and  that  very  day  some  common 
phrase  slips  from  our  unguarded  lips  and — we 
have  said  it.  Ernest  and  I  have  several  times 
been  reproved  by  Stanley  for  using  some  word 
which  we  object  to  his  using,  and  we  always  ac- 
cept his  reproof  with  humility  and  thank  him  for 
reminding  us  of  our  mistakes.  It  is  charming  to 
see  the  tact  with  which  he  immediately  tries  to 
allay  our  embarrassment  by  saying  :  ' '  I  know  you 
did  n't  fink.  You  don't  vurry  often  say  words 
like  that,  and  I  know  you  '11  learn." 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  our  imperfections  and 
his  knowledge  that  we  are  fighting  against  them 


60  Note-Book  of 

is  his  strongest  stimulus  in  struggles  for  a  purer 
tongue. 

One  other  thing.  That  which  is  absolutely  for- 
bidden is  apt  to  have  a  peculiar  fascination.  I 
try  not  to  forbid  any  more  than  is  necessary. 
About  a  week  ago  Stanley  said  "Gosh!"  in  my 
presence  in  a  way  which  showed  that  he  was  ex- 
perimenting on  me.  I  said  nothing.  Soon  he 
tried  it  again  in  the  same  way.  I  kept  still. 
When  he  was  undressing  for  bed  that  night  he 
asked  me  if  "Gosh"  were  a  bad  word.  I  con- 
sidered deeply  and  said  it  was  not  a  swear-word, 
or  a  really  wicked  word,  but  that  I  thought  it  ex- 
ceedingly silly,  and  that  it  was  a  word  which  the 
best  and  most  careful  people  would  not  use.  He 
told  me  that  the  Seymour  boys  said  it.  I  replied 
that  this  was  no  reason  why  he  should. 

He  sat  there  half  undressed,  with  one  stocking 
in  his  hand.  "You  would  rather  that  I  did  not 
say  it,"  he  remarked,  "but  you  do  not  say  that  I 
must  not  ? ' ' 

I  nodded.  He  stood  suddenly  upright,  waved 
the  stocking  round  his  head,  and  shouted,  "O 
Gosh !  Gosh !  Gosh !  Gosh !  Gosh !  Gosh  !  GOSH  !  " 
Then  he  went  on  undressing.  I  have  not  heard 
him  say  it  since,  and  I  have  been  listening.  Our 
friend  Dr.  Darrow  says  that  he  thinks  "the  gosh 
is  thoroughly  eliminated  from  his  system." 

July  6th,  1902. — I  believe  that  I  will  write  out 


An  Adopted  Mother  61 

one  of  Stanley's  original  stories  as  he  told  it  to  me 
to-day.  He  does  not  often  allow  his  imagination 
free  rein  for  so  long  a  narrative,  but  a  rainy  Sun- 
day afternoon  gave  exceptional  opportunity.  I 
sat  by  the  window  writing  letters,  and  it  was  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  slip  my  pen  along  on 
a  second  sheet  of  paper  and  keep  a  perfect  record 
of  all  he  said.  He  is  so  accustomed  to  seeing  me 
write  that  it  does  not  occasion  remark  or  cause 
self-consciousness. 

It  started  with  his  erecting  a  playhouse  in  one 
end  of  the  sitting-room.  This  was  constructed  of 
the  big  gray  shawl  carefully  pinned  over  the  backs 
of  four  dining-room  chairs.  He  said  that  his 
house  was  in  Masstoosetts,  which  was  just  across 
the  street  from  Michigan.  I  was  supposed  to  be 
in  Michigan  writing  letters.  He  was  a  mother 
living  there  with  his  only  child,  Helen  Lorene. 
Lest  my  memory  should  sometime  fail  on  these 
details,  or  Stanley  re-read  this  story  when  I  am 
not  by  to  explain,  I  will  make  it  a  matter  of 
record  that  Helen  Lorene  is  my  little  old  wax 
doll,  minus  most  of  her  wax  and  hair  and  all  of 
her  youthful  beauty. 

He  brought  Helen  Lorene  to  see  me,  held  her 
on  his  knee  while  visiting,  and  went  home  to 
Masstoosetts  from  time  to  time  for  other  members 
of  his  family. 

"Good-morning.  How  do  you  do?  I  've 
come  to  see  you.  This  is  my  little  girl.  She  's 


62  Note-Book  of 

the  only  child  I  've  got.  She  has  the  croup 
pretty  bad,  but  I  fink  she  will  outgrow  it.  She 
used  to  have  it  worse  at  the  School  before  I  got 
her.  Have  you  any  children?  I  should  fink  you 
would  buy  a  few.  .  .  .  Why !  I  forgot !  I 
have  reelly  got  another  child.  She  was  just 
hatched  yesterday.  That  is  why  I  forgot  I  had 
her,  you  know.  I  will  go  home  and  get  her. 
You  may  hold  Helen  Lorene. 

"There!  This  is  the  new  child  [a  toothpick]. 
Her  name  is  Buttonaree.  She  is  n't  very  big,  so 
I  just  call  her  that. 

"I  have  another  child  too  [bringing  over  a  toy 
broom].  His  name  is  Plant  Buttonaree.  He  is 
much  taller.  He  is  almost  as  tall  as  Father. 
That  is  because  he  eats  bread  and  milk  three  times 
a  day. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  another  of  my  children 
[holding  up  a  toy  carpet-sweeper]  ?  This  one  is 
going  to  be  a  boy  when  he  gets  bigger,  but  I  can't 
find  any  name  that  's  just  right  for  him. 

"Why!  I  have  four  babies  'sides  Helen.  I 
did  n't  know  I  had  so  many.  I  'm  going  to  have 
another  pretty  soon,  too.  You  see  I  'm  earning 
money  to  buy  babies. 

"This  [a  piece  of  red  paper]  is  one  of  my  chil- 
dren too.  Her  name  is  Flower  April  Marie.  I 
call  her  that  because  she  is  red.  Mother,  how 
big  are  babies  when  they  are  hatched? 

"This  [a  bit  of  kindling]  is  a  boy.     His  name  is 


An  Adopted  Mother  63 

Leaf- Wood-Glass.  He  is  a  dirty  child,  but  it  is 
because  he  is  so  little  that  he  does  n't  understand. 

"This  one  [a  Bible  card]  is  a  girl  who  plays  out- 
of-doors  and  can  run  very  fast.  Her  name  is 
Flag-Cat-Drawer. 

"And  this  [a  whittled  stick]  is  the  very  last 
child  I  have.  Her  name  is  Red-Coal-Leaf.  She 
is  a  vurry,  vurry  good  child. 

"And  now  I  am  going  to  play  somefmg  else." 

July  loth,  1902. — Stanley  is  quite  over  his 
temporary  estrangement  from  Helen,  the  dear  old 
battered  and  worn  dollie  which  was  once  mine  and 
is  now  his.  He  no  longer  asks,  "Is  it  right  for 
boys  to  play  with  dollies?  "  During  the  day  time 
she  is  ignored,  unless  it  rains  or  a  little  girl  comes 
to  visit,  but  when  he  finds  her  on  his  pillow  at 
night  he  covers  her  face  with  kisses  and  calls  her 
his  "dear,  sweet  little  Helen  Lorene." 

He  told  me  once,  after  he  had  been  crying, 
that  Helen  was  "a  great  comfort  "  to  him,  and 
he  often  sings  himself  to  sleep  when  he  thinks  he 
is  lulling  her.  He  is  very  anxious  that  she  should 
be  loved  by  others,  yet  once  he  showed  a  bit  of 
jealousy.  He  had  asked,  "Which  do  you  like 
best,  dollie  or  me?  " 

"You,  of  course,"  I  replied;  "but  I  have 
known  times  when  she  behaved  better  than 
you." 

"'Course,"  came  the  indignant  answer.     "She 


64  Note-Book  of 

is  n't  alive  and  I  am,  and  that  makes  a  lot  of 
difference,  you  see." 

I  do  see  it  whenever  I  think.  Like  most 
mothers,  I  do  not  always  take  time  to  see.  Rainy 
days  are  most  apt  to  dim  my  intellectual  vision. 
Even  in  such  a  big  house  as  ours,  there  is  hardly 
room  enough  for  my  active  little  boy  to  work  off 
his  superfluous  energy.  I  often  recall  what  my 
wise  friend,  Stanley's  teacher,  said  to  me  when 
she  heard  that  he  was  coming:  "Oh,  you  will  get 
along  all  right.  You  have  been  a  kindergartner 
and  know  how  to  suggest  things  to  be  done. 
That  solves  most  of  the  difficulties  with 
children." 

I  do  not  find  that  having  been  a  kindergartner 
keeps  me  from  getting  into  the  pitfalls  that  lie  in 
the  paths  of  all  mothers,  but  it  certainly  does  help 
me  realize  that  I  must  scramble  out  as  quickly  as 
possible,  and  it  teaches  me  how  to  do  it  in  most 
cases.  There  is  no  excuse  for  me  if  I  forget  very 
long  that  being  alive  makes  a  lot  of  difference. 
Don't  I  know  how  restless  and  uncomfortable  I 
am  after  a  day  in  which  I  write  too  steadily  and 
long?  Don't  I  know  that  there  are  times  when 
nothing  but  a  four-mile  walk,  even  if  it  has  to  be 
taken  through  the  rain  or  over  snowy  and  unbroken 
roads,  will  set  me  quite  at  peace  with  myself? 
And  how  would  I  act  if  I  were  then  told  that  it 
was  too  stormy  for  me  to  go  out,  and  that  I  should 
play  indoors  and  not  make  any  more  noise  than  I 


An  Adopted  Mother  65 

could  help?  I  honestly  believe  that  the  time- 
honored  injunction  to  "sit  still  and  be  a  good 
boy,"  with  the  practice  which  accompanies  the 
precept,  has  landed  many  a  robust  lad  in  the 
House  of  Correction. 

And  then  there  is  the  remembrance  of  my  ex- 
perience with  Fritzie  to  keep  me  humble.  Fritzie 
was  one  of  my  Chicago  gamins,  born  and  bred  in 
a  brewery  district,  never  comfortably  clean,  and 
subject  to  fits  of  the  most  diabolical  temper, 
which  seemed  to  come  without  provocation.  Be- 
fore meeting  him  I  was  wont  to  maintain  that 
there  was  no  occasion  for  corporal  punishment, 
even  with  children  who  had  been  brought  up  on 
it  and  expected  it. 

I  stood  by  my  theories  through  many  a  hard 
conflict  with  Fritzie,  but  one  morning  when  he 
threw  himself  on  the  floor  and  struck  and  kicked 
and  bit  like  an  infuriated  beast,  and  all  without 
apparent  cause,  I  suddenly  decided  that  spanking 
was  indicated  and  bore  him  off  to  a  cloak-room 
for  a  sound  punishment  on  that  part  of  his  anat- 
omy which  Mrs.  Wiggins  declares  is  not  the  seat 
of  the  conscience. 

It  worked  to  a  charm.  A  sweeter,  more  help- 
ful, or  more  sunshiny  child  than  the  spanked  and 
regenerated  Fritzie  was  not  in  the  kindergarten 
that  day.  And  I?  I  was  so  appalled  by  the 
downfall  of  my  theories  that  I  would  almost  have 
preferred  him  to  continue  naughty.  I  had  not 


66  Note-Book  of 

punished  him  in  anger  or  because  I  lost  my  self- 
control,  and  had  not  even  a  fleeting  satisfaction 
in  it. 

When  I  wrote  up  my  journal  for  the  day — that 
journal  to  which  I  am  so  largely  indebted  for 
whatever  insight  I  may  possess,  I  set  down  my 
conviction  that  corporal  punishment  was  some- 
times necessary,  and  retracted  my  former  views. 
But  long  after  I  had  closed  the  book  and  put  it 
away,  I  remembered  how  cold  and  purple  Fritzie's 
hands  were  before  his  punishment,  while  his  face 
was  flushed  and  hot.  I  began  to  think  that  there 
might  have  been  a  very  simple  physical  cause  for 
his  ill-temper,  and  took  out  the  book  and  wrote 
that  upon  further  consideration  I  wished  to  re- 
serve my  decision  until  I  had  seen  him  through 
one  more  ugly  spell. 

I  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  In  less  than  a 
week  Fritzie  was  acting  like  a  veritable  demon. 
I  picked  him  up,  kicking  and  screaming  and  try- 
ing hard  to  bite  me,  carried  him  into  the  storm- 
house,  locked  both  doors,  drew  out  my  watch, 
looked  exceedingly  severe,  and  told  him  he  must 
jump  up  and  down  as  hard  as  he  could  for  three 
minutes.  He  remembered  his  spanking  and 
jumped.  Then  I  unlocked  the  door  and  made 
him  run  back  and  forth  in  the  biting  winter  air  as 
fast  as  he  could,  until  he  became  breathless. 
When  I  opened  the  door  into  the  kindergarten 
and  let  him  in,  he  was  every  whit  as  good  as 


An  Adopted  Mother  67 

though  he  had  been  spanked,  and  my  old-time 
theories  had  been  vindicated. 

I  firmly  believe  that  in  many  cases  corporal 
punishment  works  so  charmingly  only  because  it, 
together  with  the  strong  crying  which  follows, 
restores  the  child's  normal  circulation.  Now 
there  are  other  and  more  pleasant  ways  of  restor- 
ing the  circulation — ways  not  so  humiliating  to 
the  child,  so  apt  to  arouse  the  parent's  temper, 
or  to  engender  hard  feeling  between  the  two. 
The  longer  I  live  the  more  I  believe  that  corporal 
punishment  is  both  unnecessary  and  wrong  for 
any  child  who  is  old  enough  and  intelligent 
enough  to  reason,  and  who  has  been  brought  up 
from  the  first  by  those  who  are  willing  to  find  a 
better  way. 

July  14-th,  1902.—  Another  lesson  taught  me 
by  my  little  boy !  I  suppose  it  was  really  only 
the  echo  of  some  things  I  have  said  to  him  in 
days  gone  by,  but  it  was  given  back  in  so  different 
a  form  and  after  such  a  lapse  of  time  that  it  was 
practically  original.  Besides,  it  always  impresses 
us  to  see  others  consistently  practising  what  we 
have  preached. 

I  have  tried,  when  I  could  speak  of  such  things 
naturally  and  without  forcing,  to  have  Stanley 
realize  that  thoughts  are  very  important,  and  that 
our  happiness  does  not  always  depend  upon 
material  circumstances;  that  people  who  make 


68  Note-Book  of 

themselves  think  pleasant  thoughts  can  often  be 
truly  happy  when  others  would  find  no  cause  for 
contentment. 

To-day  he  became  greatly  excited  over  a  mouse 
in  the  wood-box.  He  had  not  seen  it,  yet  was 
sure  that  he  heard  it.  He  shouted  great  bullying 
speeches  to  it,  carefully  explaining  in  an  under- 
tone each  time  that  it  was  ''only  fiction,"  that  he 
"would  n't  reelly  hurt  the  dear  little  mousie," 
and  that  "it  would  n't  matter  'cause  the  mousie 
could  n't  understand  words  anyway. ' '  I  was  sew- 
ing in  the  sitting-room,  and  he  came  many 
times  to  ask  me  out  to  see  it.  Before  I  could 
reach  a  good  stopping-point  in  my  work,  he 
came  in  drooping.  "Mother,"  said  he,  "I  took 
fings  out  and  it  was  n't  a  mouse  at  all — only 
a  piece  of  paper  that  wiggled  when  you  poked 
it." 

I  sympathized  as  tactfully  as  I  knew  how, 
while  he  pouted  a  little  and  screwed  the  toe  of 
his  shoe  around  on  the  floor.  Suddenly  he 
brightened.  "Oh,  but  Mother,"  said  he,  "didnt 
I  have  a  dandy  time  when  I  fought  it  was  a 
mouse?  It  was  such  fun,  you  know!  I  'd  shout 
out  somefing  and  poke  the  wood,  and  then  that 
paper  would  rattle  and  I  'd  most  fink  I  saw  him. 
It  was  more  fun!  " 

And  the  child  was  actually  radiant  all  the  rest 
of  the  forenoon  over  the  fun  he  had  had  with  a 
mouse  which  never  existed.  Truly  "The  mind 


An  Adopted  Mother  69 

is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself  can  make  a  heaven 
of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven." 

July  1 8th,  1902. — We  are  in  our  summer  home 
at  last  for  what  remains  of  the  short  vacation.  It 
is  a  new  world  to  Stanley,  who  has  the  greatest 
liberty  imaginable.  There  are  no  dangers  to  be 
guarded  against  and  no  evil  companions  to  be 
feared.  Being  barefooted  is  not  enough — he  rolls 
up  trousers  and  sleeves  and  disdains  hats.  He 
has  already  acquired  so  much  tan  that  he  looks 
variegated  when  undressed.  On  this  account  he 
thinks  he  will  "prob'ly  be  an  Indian"  when  he 
grows  up. 

Naturally  he  is  a  person  of  much  interest  to 
those  who  have  never  seen  "the  little  boy  the 
Davidses  have  adopted."  My  neighbors  tell  of 
overhearing  some  other  children  questioning  him. 

"Where  did  you  live  before  you  came  to  Mrs. 
Davids?"  said  they. 

"I  did  n't  live,"  replied  Stanley. 

"Were  you  dead?  "     (This  in  a  hushed  voice.) 

"No!  I  was  n't  dead.     I  just  did  n't  live !  " 

July  2jrd,  1902. — Our  life  in  the  woods  has 
given  Stanley  a  great  many  new  ideas,  and  has,  sad 
to  say,  renewed  his  fears  of  the  night.  Several 
skunks  have  been  prowling  around  of  late,  and  the 
cottagers  have  had  to  be  very  careful  in  their  even- 
ing rambles.  Stanley  overheard  bits  of  conversa- 


70  Note-Book  of 

tion  on  the  subject  and  got  the  idea  that  a  skunk 
was  a  terribly  ferocious  great  beast  which  came 
out  of  his  hole  as  soon  as  the  sun  went  down. 
When  in  bed  the  least  noise  would  make  him  ask, 
"Is  that  a  skunk?  " 

To  allay  these  fears  I  have  talked  a  great  deal 
about  skunks,  described  them  fully,  and  given 
them  as  good  a  reputation  as  I  could,  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  they  are  in  rather  bad 
odor  here.  I  told  him  how,  being  such  small 
animals,  they  had  to  have  some  way  of  scaring 
away  larger  ones  and  making  men  let  them  alone. 
I  told  him  that,  even  if  he  were  out  walking  in 
the  night  and  saw  a  skunk  a  short  distance  off,  he 
would  be  perfectly  safe  if  he  just  stood  still  and 
did  not  frighten  him.  It  was  only  when  hurt  or 
scared  that  they  threw  the  bad-smelling  liquid. 
He  was  much  reassured  and  began  to  think  them 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning. 

To-day  that  subject  has  been  of  paramount  im- 
portance to  him.  He  talked  it  over  with  Ernest 
and  cautioned  him.  "Yes,  Father,"  he  said,  "if 
you  tried  to  pick  up  a  skunk,  he  'd  frow  up  his 
tail  and  that  would  be  the  last  of  you." 

He  has  often  come  to  me  for  supplementary 
information.  "Mother,"  he  said  once,  "how 
does  skunks  squirt  at  people  when  they  are  going 
frontwards?"  In  fact,  I  think  he  has  succeeded 
almost  too  well  in  getting  their  point  of  view,  for 
he  said:  "It  is  all  right  for  them  to  frow  bad- 


An  Adopted  Mother  71 

smelling  stuff  on  people  what  tries  to  hurt  them. 
If  I  was  a  skunk  and  anybody  tried  to  hurt  me, 
do  you  know  what  I  'd  do?  I  'd  jerk  up  my  tail 
and  frow  bad-smelling  oil  all  over  'em." 

But  the  climax  came  to-night  when,  after  his 
usual  petition  to  God  to  "bless  Father  and  bless 
Mother,  '  '  etc.  ,  he  added  :  '  '  Oh,  yes,  and  somefing 
else,  you  know,  'bout  skunks."  Thinking  he 
meant  no  irreverence  and  wishing  to  get  his  views, 
I  said:  "Very  well.  You  say  what  you  wish." 

"You  say  the  words  to  it,  Mother." 

"No,  you  say  them,  for  I  don't  know  what 
you  want." 

After  a  long  pause  and  deep  thought  he  said  : 
"Well,  I  guess  one  word  will  do,  but  I  '11  have  to 
start  again.  .  .  .  Bless  Father  and  Mother 
and  Grandfather  and  Grandmother  and  Nettie, 
and  make  me  a  good  boy.  Skunks.  Amen." 

I  suppose  he  wished  that  they  should  be  pro- 
tected in  their  night  wanderings,  and  was  only 
embarrassed  by  the  thought  that  he  might  be  un- 
conventional. It  strikes  me  that  if  more  people 
had  his  faith  in  the  Lord's  ability  to  understand, 
we  should  not  have  so  many  categorical  prayers 
full  of  vain  repetitions. 


July  2^th,  1902.  —  What  is  a  mother  anyway?  — 
that  is  a  human  mother  of  the  ideal  type?  And 
are  not  our  ideals  changing  quite  rapidly?  I 
doubt  whether  the  highest  ideal  of  motherhood 


72  Note-Book  of 

in  these  days  differs  much  from  the  highest  of  a 
century  ago  in  this  same  country,  but  it  is  much 
more  widely  accepted  and  is  naturally  somewhat 
affected  by  the  spirit  of  the  age.  With  all  due 
deference  to  heredity,  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
bearing  of  the  child  is  of  less  and  less  relative  im- 
portance as  women  have  more  and  more  oppor- 
tunities to  keep  in  touch  with  their  maturing 
children.  It  is  a  comfort  to  us  adopted  mothers 
to  believe  it,  yet  I  thought  so  long  ago. 

I  remember  hearing  Professor  Swing  say  that 
he  knew  many  mothers  whose  children  were  well 
washed,  well  scolded,  well  whipped,  but  never  in- 
spired. He  also  spoke  of  parents  who  knew 
nothing  and  appeared  to  be  perfectly  satisfied 
with  themselves.  But  this  is  perfectly  sure,  that 
the  great  majority  of  mothers  have  to  see  to  the 
washing  and  disciplining  of  children,  and  if  they 
intend  to  do  the  inspiring  also,  there  must  be 
wise  planning,  persistent  living  up  to  it,  together 
with  considerable  independence  of  the  opinion  of 
neighbors  who  do  not  make  inspiration  a  part  of 
their  plan. 

If  there  are  to  be  so  many  and  such  apparently 
conflicting  demands  upon  the  time  of  the  average 
mother,  it  strikes  me  that,  for  myself  at  least,  I 
need  to  decide  the  relative  importance  of  things 
and  keep  it  in  mind.  First,  I  would  take  it  for 
granted  that  a  woman's  duty  to  her  child  should 
be  paramount.  Certainly  her  duty  to  her  home 


An  Adopted  Mother  73 

is  greater  than  that  to  the  community,  and  adults 
in  the  home  are  able  to  be  more  independent  than 
the  child — are  less  seriously  affected  by  neglect 
than  are  children. 

Then  as  to  the  ideal  mother.  First  of  all  I 
would  have  her  serene,  able  in  emergencies  to  do 
three  or  four  things  at  a  time  without  becoming 
cross,  and  able  to  steady  and  help  a  petulant  and 
unreasonable  child  without  losing  her  self-control. 
It  takes  grace  to  be  serene  and  it  takes  something 
more,  for  serenity  rests  upon  a  physiological 
as  well  as  upon  a  spiritual  basis.  It  requires 
sleep  and  fresh  air  and  wholesome  meals  to  pro- 
duce it.  Any  mother  who  can  possibly  obtain 
a  midday  nap  should  take  it  with  a  clear  con- 
science, feeling  sure  that  she  is  thereby  doing 
even  more  for  her  little  ones  than  for  herself. 

Next  I  would  have  her  so  affectionate  that  her 
children  might  always  feel  certain  of  her  love, 
even  when  weak  and  naughty :  but  this  affection 
should  never  interfere  with  absolute  justice,  else 
the  children  would  grow  up  with  the  idea  that 
wrong-doing  is  atoned  for  and  blotted  out  by 
kisses  and  hugs. 

Then,  I  think,  I  would  have  her  sympathetic, 
taking  the  trouble  to  be  interested  in  all  her  chil- 
dren's affairs.  I  remember  one  dear  lady  whom  I 
know  very  well  saying  to  her  daughter,  "I  have 
always  thought  it  wonderful  that  you  gave  me 
such  full  confidence  throughout  your  girl-  and 


74  Note-Book  of 

young  womanhood."  And  the  daughter,  then 
settled  in  a  home  of  her  own,  replied:  "It  was  a 
matter  of  course  with  me.  When  I  was  little  you 
were  never  too  tired  or  busy  to  listen  to  what  I 
thought  important,  or  to  stop  and  sympathize 
with  my  grief  when  my  doll  got  hurt.  My  con- 
fidences were  never  repelled." 

I  would  have  her  thrifty,  of  course,  but  I  should 
be  afraid  of  having  her  too  fine  a  housekeeper. 
Somehow,  excessive  devotion  to  an  immaculate 
home  does  not  seem  to  create  the  best  sort  of  at- 
mosphere for  active  boys  and  girls.  It  is  apt  to 
make  them  think  that  other  mothers  let  their 
children  have  better  times  in  the  house,  and  when 
a  child  gets  an  idea  into  his  little  head  that  his 
mother  is  not  absolutely  the  best  in  the  world, 
the  very  foundations  of  society  are  endangered. 
I  know  that  the  most  devoted  children  may  say 
such  things  in  an  occasional  burst  of  temper,  but 
to  have  the  idea  really  lodge  and  be  strengthened 
and  corroborated  by  too  many  injunctions  not  to 
touch  this  and  not  to  get  that  onto  the  floor  is 
downright  perilous.  If  it  results  in  nothing  worse, 
it  is  quite  certain  to  produce  a  distaste  for  over- 
tidiness,  which  generally  ends  in  slovenliness. 
Virtues  carried  to  excess  in  the  parents  generally 
produce  the  balancing  faults  in  the  next  genera- 
tion, and  so  the  average  is  maintained. 

And  my  ideal  mother  should  be  somewhat  un- 
conventional. It  should  not  distress  her  to  have 


An  Adopted  Mother  75 

her  children  the  most  plainly  dressed  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  she  should  not  be  above  going  for 
polliwogs  with  them  when  the  fine  spring  days 
come,  even  if  it  meant  wearing  old  clothes  and 
carrying  home  rusty  cans  of  the  little  wrigglers. 
Such  things  are  so  conducive  to  good  fellowship ! 

And  how  large  a  portion  of  her  time  should  she 
give  to  outside  interests?  That  would  depend  on 
many  things,  but  I  would  have  her  choose  the 
best,  and  watch  herself  to  see  the  result  of  vari- 
ous outings.  It  would  be  well  if  in  some  way  she 
could  come  to  a  fuller  comprehension  of  what  the 
public  schools  are  doing  and  trying  to  do  for 
children.  In  many  places  there  are  mothers' 
meetings  held  in  connection  with  the  local  schools, 
and  the  best  of  all,  when  it  is  possible  for  her  to 
attend,  is  a  first-class  State  Teachers'  Association 
meeting.  More  and  more  are  such  meetings 
planned  with  reference  to  the  interest  and  com- 
prehension of  the  general  public,  and  they  are 
even  providing  section  meetings  for  those  who 
are  outside  the  profession.  It  is  a  great  uplift  to 
attend  a  convention  of  this  sort. 

I  would  not  have  my  ideal  mother  give  much 
time  to  newspaper  reading.  I  think  it  was  Agassiz 
who  advised  people  to  "read  the  eternities  rather 
than  the  Times,"  and  the  advice  still  holds  good. 
A  good  review  winnows  the  papers  and  gives  to 
busy  people  the  wheat  without  the  chaff.  A 
magazine  containing  items  of  popular  scientific 


76  Note-Book  of 

interest  is  a  particularly  good  thing  for  mothers 
of  boys,  and  I  would  rather  take  my  real  mental 
vacation  with  a  fine  novel  in  my  hand  than  behind 
the  rustling  pages  of  a  daily  paper. 

I  do  not  see  that  my  ideal  would  have  much 
time  left  for  Browning  and  Shakespeare,  but  per- 
haps she  might  when  the  last  of  her  flock  reached 
school  age.  She  would  have  to  manage  to  look 
neat  and  dainty  along  with  more  serious  matters. 
She  would  owe  that  to  the  home  in  general,  and 
her  children  would  so  appreciate  it.  A  bright 
bow  in  the  hair,  a  flower  on  the  corsage,  some 
trifle  of  that  sort,  is  a  great  help  in  giving  little 
people  a  fond  pride  in  their  mother.  I  shall  never 
forget,  if  I  live  to  be  a  hundred,  the  proud  thrill 
which  I  always  felt  when  my  mother  pinned  on  a 
certain  purple  jabot  with  a  scrap  of  real  lace.  I 
suppose  it  would  seem  frightfully  dowdy  to  me 
now,  yet  it  was  in  good  taste  then.  And  when  I 
was  permitted  to  see  her  in  her  one  silk  gown, 
ready  to  go  to  a  party  as  I  was  ready  to  go  to  bed, 
I  was  quite  certain  that  earth  held  nothing  more 
splendid  or  more  satisfying.  I  know  now  that 
her  best  was  very  modest,  but  it  was  becoming  to 
her  and  gave  me  a  happy  feeling  that  things  were 
as  they  should  be. 

And  they  were  very  nearly  as  they  should  be. 
My  mother  did  wonders  with  the  strength  and 
opportunities  which  were  hers,  keeping  the  bal- 
ance even  in  rendering  his  due  to  each  in  the 


An  Adopted  Mother  77 

home  circle,  and  giving  our  little  house  the  artistic 
touches  with  which  a  true  home-lover  can  make 
the  most  humble  dwelling  attractive.  She  was 
not  the  ideal  mother,  because  in  caring  for  the 
health  and  welfare  of  others  she  neglected  herself, 
never  allowing  herself  to  stop  while  there  was 
anything  left  undone  (a  degree  of  energy  and  am- 
bition which  will  undo  the  most  robust),  yet  I  have 
known  only  one  other  who  seemed  to  me  so  near 
the  ideal. 

If  I  can  be  as  much  to  my  boy  as  she  has  been 
to  me !  I  dare  not  expect  it,  but  it  will  not  be 
for  lack  of  endeavor  if  I  fail.  I  have  my  ideal  in 
mind,  and  it  will  be  strange  if  by  taking  thought 
I  cannot  grow  more  and  more  into  its  likeness. 

July  2jth,  1902. — I  wonder  if  I  have  ever  real- 
ized what  a  constant  terror  of  bug-a-boos  means 
to  a  child.  I  knew  Stanley  was  often  in  great 
fear  at  night,  and  that  sometimes  during  the  day 
he  disliked  to  be  alone  in  a  room,  but  to-day  I 
had  a  deeper  insight  into  his  fearful  little  heart. 
We  had  been  talking  about  goodness  and  badness 
and  children  in  general,  and  I  said,  "I  think  that 
the  best  thing  in  the  world,  Stanley,  is  a  good 
little  boy  or  a  good  person." 

"Oh  no,"  came  the  instant  response,  "the  best 
ring,  the  very  best,  is  not  to  be  ated  up." 


August  i sty  1902. — Stanley  has  just  dozed 


off 


78  Note-Book  of 

into  a  restless  sleep,  having  this  afternoon  at- 
tended a  party  which  was  the  time  of  his  life, 
from  a  gastronomical  standpoint  at  least.  From 
the  sartorial  standpoint  it  was  not  so  impressive, 
I  being  obliged  to  let  him  go  barefooted  and  in 
the  very  simple  best  which  our  woodland  life  de- 
mands. I  endeavored  to  atone  for  all  omissions 
by  giving  him  that  "well-groomed  look"  which 
fashion  journals  state  is  the  criterion  of  real  ele- 
gance in  attire.  It  was  when  I  was  struggling 
with  his  hair  that  he  discovered  it  had  to  be 
"partied  "  because  he  was  going  to  a  party. 

When  he  returned  he  did  not  look  well-groomed, 
and  he  was  very  hiccuppy.  If  there  was  a  single 
substantial  on  the  menu,  it  had  not  impressed 
itself  on  his  memory.  He  was  sure  they  did  not 
have  sandwiches.  He  could  not  recall  any  bread 
and  butter.  There  were  certainly  no  crackers. 
There  was  no  meat.  There  were  no  potatoes. 
There  were,  however,  four  kinds  of  cake,  ice 
cream,  lemonade  "with  pipes  to  suck  it  froo," 
nuts,  and  an  unlimited  supply  of  candy.  In  fact, 
it  would  appear  that  everything  was  unlimited. 
Stanley  "had  the  dandiest  sort  of  a  time,"  but 
his  stomach  ached  and  he  felt  sick.  He  was  sure 
he  had  n't  eaten  too  much.  The  lady  had  kept 
telling  him  to  "take  rings  "  and  so  he  did. 

His  disposition  as  well  as  his  digestion  was 
somewhat  the  worse  for  dissipation,  so  I  told  him 
that  it  was  always  right  for  children  to  go  early 


An  Adopted  Mother  79 

to  bed  after  parties,  and  bundled  him  off  to  sleep 
at  precisely  six  o'clock.  Of  course  there  had  to 
be  peppermint  administered  to  stop  the  stomach- 
ache. He  was  nervous  and  fearful  of  every  little 
noise,  and  before  sleep  came  he  had  a  long  crying 
spell  with  no  external  provocation.  Well ! 

I  wish  that  somebody  who  is  capable  would 
write  and  syndicate  an  article  on  "The  Moral 
Effect  of  our  Meals."  I  know  perfectly  well  that 
life  will  be  a  burden  to  Stanley  and  his  associates 
to-morrow,  and  that  they  will  experience  all  the 
evil  results  of  intemperance. 

I  remember  a  little  Jewess  who  occasionally 
upset  the  whole  kindergarten  by  her  demoniacal 
fits  of  temper  when  I  was  teaching  in  Chicago. 
It  was  a  puzzling  case  because  she  usually  showed 
quite  remarkable  self-control.  After  many  efforts 
we  found  out  that  her  mother  punished  her  for 
slow  dressing  by  sending  her  off  without  breakfast. 
Then  hunger  weakened  her  self-control  and  we 
took  the  consequences.  We  had  to  issue  an  ulti- 
matum to  the  effect  that  if  there  were  to  be  no 
breakfast  there  must  be  no  kindergarten. 

Jennie  was  bad  enough,  yet  better  a  hungry 
child  than  one  of  the  coffee-and-buckwheat-cakes- 
for-breakfast  kind.  A  lunch  of  crackers  in  the 
cloak-room  would  soothe  the  former,  but  the  latter 
was  hopelessly  irritable  and  unreasonable.  An- 
other trying  child  was  the  one  whose  mother 
"liked  things  good  and  rich."  A  fourth  (and 


8o  Note-Book  of 

there  were  several  of  him)  was  the  delicate  and 
capricious  youngster  who  did  not  find  anything 
to  suit  him  on  the  breakfast  table  and  so  refused 
to  more  than  taste  of  food.  Such  a  lad  should 
be  taught  that  eating  is  often  a  duty  when  it  is 
not  a  pleasure,  and  that  failure  to  eat  a  fair  meal 
is  sometimes  nothing  less  than  naughtiness. 

In  moments  of  great  exasperation  I  have 
thought  that  half  of  the  naughtiness,  punching, 
scratching,  and  general  lack  of  self-control  in  the 
morning  kindergarten  sessions  was  only  the  effect 
of  bad  or  insufficient  breakfasts,  and  I  have 
wished  it  were  practicable  to  collect  statistics  as 
to  the  contents  of  children's  stomachs,  somewhat 
as  certain  scientific  gentlemen  collect,  tabulate, 
and  deduce  from  the  contents  of  their  minds. 
How  easy  it  would  then  be,  after  we  had  figures 
and  good  authority  to  back  us,  to  say  to  a  mother 
whose  five-year-old  son  had  sobbed  himself  into  a 
state  of  exhaustion  :  "Madam,  you  thought  you 
were  whipping  your  son  because  he  was  cruel  to 
the  baby  and  impertinent  to  you,  but  the  truth  is 
that  you  whipped  him  for  eating  the  food  which 
you  prepared  and  set  before  him  for  breakfast. 
You  are  the  primary  cause  of  his  ill-temper,  and 
unfortunately  there  is  nobody  to  whip  you  !  " 


August  fill,  1902.  —  One  of  the  delaying  inci- 
dents of  Stanley's  bedtime  has  been  a  frequently 
recurring  stomach-ache,  which  has  aroused  my 


An  Adopted  Mother  81 

suspicions,  there  being  nothing  about  his  home 
suppers  to  induce  it.  He  always  claimed  that  it 
was  cured  by  peppermint  on  sugar  at  the  School, 
and  I  have  also  given  it  to  him.  Last  night  I  said 
he  should  have  something  to  make  it  stay  cured 
longer,  but  that  the  medicine  was  not  a  good- 
tasting  one,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  give  it  to  him 
unless  I  really  had  to.  He  was  positive  that  he 
needed  something,  so  I  administered  a  very  small 
dose  of  quinine  in  water.  Ugh ! 

When  he  got  through  sputtering  and  swallow- 
ing, he  was  sure  that  he  needed  no  more  medicine. 
However,  it  took  him  a  long  time  to  settle  down 
for  the  night. 

This  evening  when  all  the  other  detaining  de- 
vices had  been  exhausted,  he  asked,  "Mother, 
how  does  your  stomach  feel  when  you  need  very 
bad-tasting  medicine?  " 

"How  does  yours  feel?  "  I  counter-questioned. 

"I — I  fink  it  feels  as  if  it  needed  some  good- 
tasting  medicine." 

He  did  not  get  it,  and  I  am  confident  that  I 
have  discovered  a  medicine  which  will  cure  per- 
manently with  one  dose. 

August  8th,  1902. — I  wonder  how  old  we  seem 
to  Stanley — Ernest  and  I?  He  has  always  been 
very  eager  to  know  our  ages,  but  Ernest  has  a 
prejudice  against  giving  such  statistics,  and  so  I 
have  never  told.  A  while  ago  Stanley  was  sure 


82  Note-Book  of 

that  he  had  solved  the  problem.  Ernest  was 
going  to  vote  and  he  wanted  to  vote  also.  When 
told  he  could  not  until  he  was  twenty-one,  he 
was  positive  that  was  his  father's  age.  And  when 
he  heard  me  say  that  I  never  tasted  coffee  until 
I  was  sixteen,  he  was  equally  certain  of  me. 

But  to-day  he  came  dancing  in  saying :  "I  have 
just  found  out  about  the  first  man  and  woman. 
Guess  their  names.  Why,  you  knew !  Mother, 
were  you  alive  then?  " 

August  I2tk,  1902. — Why  is  it  that  men  almost 
invariably  require  "instant  obedience  and  no  ask- 
ing of  questions"  from  children?  Within  the  past 
week  two  men  have  said  to  me,  with  every  evi- 
dence of  pride  in  the  statement :  "When  I  speak 
I  expect  my  children  to  obey  at  once."  Was  it 
wrong  in  the  woman  they  addressed  to  wonder 
whether  they  always  obeyed  "at  once"  when  con- 
science, God's  voice,  commanded  them? 

These  are  comparatively  young  men,  yet  how 
far  removed  from  their  own  childhood  if  they 
cannot  remember  the  struggle  between  conflicting 
inclinations,  when  as  boys  they  were  subject  to 
many  small  temptations.  When  one  gets  right 
down  to  it,  the  naturally  good  people  are  scarce. 
With  many  of  us,  life  is  one  long  endeavor  to  be 
good,  and  I,  for  one,  do  not  find  it  such  an  easy 
matter  to  do  the  right  thing  that  I  cannot  occa- 
sionally allow  a  child  a  few  minutes  in  which  to 


An  Adopted  Mother  83 

think  over  the  situation  and  determine  his  course 
of  action.  If  he  decides  to  continue  in  his  wrong- 
doing, the  rights  of  others  must  be  protected 
and  the  small  culprit  dealt  with  according  to  his 
offence,  but  it  strikes  me  that  the  kindest  and 
wisest  thing  we  can  do,  when  we  see  children 
wavering  between  right  and  wrong,  is  to  state  the 
case  quite  dispassionately,  give  them  to  under- 
stand that  we  expect  them  to  do  right  and  shall  be 
much  happier  when  they  have  decided  to,  and  then 
stand  back  and  allow  them  to  develop  strength  of 
character  by  fighting  down  their  evil  promptings. 

To  do  right  because  it  is  right,  and  not  because 
you  have  to,  is  the  final  motive  to  which  all  ex- 
cept the  criminal  classes  must  attain.  Degenerates 
are  exceptions  to  this  rule,  but  we  are  supposed 
to  be  dealing  with  normal  children,  destined  to 
experience  temptations  daily  throughout  their 
lives,  when  they  are  alone,  when  parents  are 
dead,  when  friends  are  scattered,  and  when  cir- 
cumstances would  all  seem  to  render  a  compromise 
with  conscience  expedient.  Woe  to  him  who  has 
not  learned  to  fight  his  unseen  battles  when 
young!  Compulsory  goodness  is  not  virtue,  and 
results  in  no  comforting  sense  of  rectitude.  It 
protects  other  members  of  society  and  prevents 
strengthening  the  habit  of  wrong-doing,  still  it  is 
a  pitiful  substitute  for  voluntary,  even  if  tardy, 
obedience. 

Who  knows  how  early  in  life  the  most  favored 


84  Note-Book  of 

child  may  be  left  alone  and  unprotected?  In 
view  of  the  possibilities  it  strikes  me  that  people 
should  gladly  give  time  to  developing  little  men 
and  women  of  strong,  independent  character,  even 
if  our  homes  and  schoolrooms  are  not  remarkable 
for  unfailing  instant  obedience. 

And  also,  suppose  that  we  who  are  inclined  to 
tear  open  the  morning-glory  by  requiring  of  little 
children  virtues  of  which  time  has  not  yet  made 
them  capable  should  apply  the  rule  of  "instant 
obedience  and  no  asking  of  questions"  to  our- 
selves? Would  n't  we  be  a  trifle  more  charitable 
with  our  sons  and  daughters? 

I  have  just  had  an  experience  with  Stanley 
illustrative  of  what  I  have  lately  been  considering, 
the  difficulty  of  being  instantly  obedient.  We 
had  a  long  and  wearying  contest  of  wills  this 
afternoon,  so  long  that  my  nerves,  which  are 
equal  to  most  demands,  were  rather  the  worse  for 
wear  at  its  close.  During  it  all  I  could  see  the 
struggle  between  good  and  evil  reflected  in  his  big 
brown  eyes  and  his  expressive  little  face.  After- 
ward, when  we  were  trying  to  make  ourselves  look 
fresh  and  presentable  for  dinner  and  Ernest's 
home-coming,  he  leaned  against  me  with  a  tired 
caress.  "I  guess  you  did  n't  fink  I  was  trying 
to  be  good,"  he  said,  "but  I  was.  I  tried  just 
as  hard  as  I  could." 

"Only  you  did  n't  succeed  very  well?  "  I  asked, 
with  my  hand  under  his  chin. 


An  Adopted  Mother  85 

"Yes,  only  I  did  n't  succeed.  Perhaps  that 
was  because  I  am  only  a  little  boy,  you  know." 

Now  who  would  ever  expect  a  five-year-old  to 
analyze  the  situation  so  keenly?  I  would  not 
from  my  previous  knowledge  of  children,  and 
what  I  now  wonder  is  whether  Stanley  is  such  an 
exceptionally  bright  child,  or  whether  it  is  not 
simply  that  we  are  on  such  terms  of  perfect  con- 
fidence that  he  tells  me  things  which  most  children 
keep  to  themselves.  If  the  latter,  how  often 
adults  must  stand  justly  condemned  at  the  bar  of 
childish  judgment! 

August  ijth,  1902.—  Compliments  and  endear- 
ments vary.  Yesterday  it  was,  as  it  so  often  is : 
"O,  Mother,  Mother,  Mother,  you  are  my  very 
best  chum !  " 

To-day  it  is:  "You  are  my  loffy-doff,  Mother. 
That  is  something  nice,  is  n't  it? " 

What  spoils  my  enjoyment  of  the  latter  term 
of  endearment  is  a  natural  wonder  as  to  where  he 
heard  it.  Can  it  be  that  it  was  from  the  lips  of 
a  certain  young  man  who  calls  upon  my  servant? 
And  if  so,  am  I  not  likely  to  lose  another  maid 
by  marriage?  Perhaps  misfortunes  of  this  sort 
have  made  me  suspicious.  Only  a  year  ago  I  felt 
comfortable  and  secure  in  the  services  of  a  young 
woman  who  told  me  soon  after  I  had  employed 
her  that  she  had  been  give  the  go-by  by  the 
young  man  she  had  been  engaged  with,  and  that 


86  Note-Book  of 

she  did  n't  care  whether  she  ever  see  another  or 
not. 

Yet  within  a  year  she  was  blissfully,  blushingly 
conscious  of  the  admiration  of  a  certain  farmer's 
son,  and  only  a  few  weeks  later  was  distracted  by 
the  rivalry  between  him  and  a  widowed  painter. 
She  was  married  from  my  house.  Clearly  I  must 
keep  an  eye  on  Nettie. 

August  2Oth,  1902. — Concerning  prayers.  This 
being  a  Christian  household  of  the  old-fashioned 
and  good-fashioned  kind,  where  all  the  family 
have  a  short  service  of  worship  together  after 
breakfast,  our  boy  does  not  have  the  impression 
which  most  have,  that  prayer  is  for  small  children 
and  church  services  only.  We  have  morning 
worship  together  and  we  also  ask  the  blessing  at 
table,  often  using  the  form  which  Stanley  re- 
peated at  the  School : 

"  God  is  great  and  God  is  good, 
And  we  thank  Him  for  this  food. 
By  His  hand  must  all  be  fed, 
Give  us,  Lord,  our  daily  bread.     Amen." 

The  bedtime  prayer  has  been  quite  a  problem 
in  my  mind.  I  have  always  felt  that  "Now  I  lay 
me  "  could  be  improved  upon.  No  prayer  is  fer- 
vent and  effectual  unless  it  is  understood  by  the 
one  uttering  it,  and  when  you  come  to  analyze 


An  Adopted  Mother  87 

that,  it  is  not  just  what  one  would  choose  for  the 
child  of  to-day.  It  contains  no  praise  or  thanks- 
giving for  mercies  received,  no  petitions  in  behalf 
of  others,  and  none  for  spiritual  strength  amid 
worldly  temptations,  three  points  which  strike  me 
as  most  essential.  So  I  have  kept  myself  open 
to  conviction  and  experimented  a  little.  I  feel 
sure  I  should  have  learned  much  more  if  Stanley 
had  not  always  been  so  tired  by  bedtime.  He 
plays  so  hard  that  even  with  his  short  days  he 
sometimes  cries  from  sheer  fatigue.  "Mother," 
he  said,  on  one  such  occasion,  "the  next  time  that 
you  are  so  tired  it  seems  as  though  you  would  cry, 
you  just  cry  and  you  will  feel  better.  Only  if  you 
cry  too  long  it  will  make  your  head  ache." 

Sometimes  it  is:  "I  don't  want  to  say  my 
prayers  to-night,  I  am  so  tired.  But  God  will 
understand."  Once  when  he  asked  me  to  pray 
for  him,  he  to  listen  carefully  and  say  "Amen," 
he  told  me  at  the  close  that  I  "did  it  all  right," 
having  evidently  had  some  misgivings. 

Again  he  said  :  "This  is  the  tiredest  night  I  ever 
had.  You  don't  know  how  tired  I  am." 

"No,  dear,"  I  answered,  "I  don't  know  ex- 
actly, but  God  does  and  He  understands  all  about 
it."  In  praying  for  him  then  I  said,  "Look  down 
on  this  tired  little  boy  and  bless  him — "  when  he 
suddenly  stood  bolt  upright  and  said:  "Is  that 
how  God  knows — He  looks  right  down  in  me? 
Does  He  look  in  my  froat  ?  " 


88  Note-Book  of 

My  conclusion  is  that  the  very  best  prayer, 
at  least  for  my  boy,  is  one  fresh  every  evening 
and  preceded  by  a  little  cuddling  talk  about 
what  the  day  has  been  and  the  morrow  should 
be.  The  way  in  which  ready-made  prayers 
become  vain  repetition  is  shown  by  the  mere 
possibility  of  a  child's  making  such  a  blunder 
as  he  did  one  night,  I  having  at  first  yielded 
enough  to  the  traditions  of  Ernest's  family  to 
start  Stanley  on  the  familiar  "Now  I  lay 
me."  He  was  very  sleepy,  knelt  and  said: 
"Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,  and  we  fank 
Him  for  this  food — Mother,  I  am  all  mixed  up! 
Help  me." 

At  the  same  time,  when  I  was  looking  out  for 
the  pitfalls  of  conventionalism  I  stumbled  into 
one  of  my  own  contriving.  Saying  one  evening 
that  I  would  "make  up"  a  prayer  which  he  should 
repeat  after  me,  I  was  followed  with  many  giggles 
and  a  gabbling  "Amen,  amen,  amen,  amen," 
until  I  explained  that  "amen"  was  not  a  word  to 
play  with.  Even  then  I  could  not  see  what  was 
wrong,  and  did  not  until,  a  few  nights  later,  he 
asked  for  "another  make-believe  prayer."  He 
had  confounded  phrases  and  actually  thought  that 
I  was  carrying  fiction  into  the  realm  of  prayer.  On 
the  same  evening  when  I  made  this  startling  dis- 
covery I  said,  "I  will  tell  you  more  about  what 
the  Lord's  Prayer  means  another  time,"  he  hav- 
ing learned  it  parrot  fashion  in  the  School.  In- 


An  Adopted  Mother  89 

stantly  he  retorted  :  "Why  not  tell  me  now?  Is 
it  a  very  long  mean?  " 

"Bless,"  that  most  impossible  of  words  to  de- 
fine to  a  young  child,  he  evidently  interprets  as 
"love,"  for  he  frequently  adds  to  his  petition  for 
blessings  on  the  family,  "and  love  my  own  self 
some,  too." 

Once  it  struck  me  that  he  did  what  I  believe 
adults  often  do,  prayed  to  be  made  better  than  he 
really  wanted  to  be.  In  dictating  an  appropriate 
little  prayer  for  him  to  repeat  after  me,  sentence 
by  sentence,  I  said,  "Help  me  to  be  the  best  kind 
of  boy."  Stanley  amended  it  to  "the  best  kind 
of  boy  in  the  whole  world."  Then,  when  kissing 
me  good-night,  he  insisted  that  I  should  stay  in 
the  room  with  him,  instead  of  just  outside  the 
door,  where  I  could  visit  with  some  friends. 

I  said :  "The  best  kind  of  boy  would  n't  ask  his 
mother  to  stay  in  with  him  to-night." 

"No,"  was  the  instant  response,  "but  I  'm  not 
the  best  kind  of  boy  yet,  you  know.  Not  now, 
but  I  will  be  to-morrow." 

However,  barring  a  peculiarity  of  form,  I  think 
the  most  satisfactory  prayer  I  ever  knew  him  to 
offer  was  one  wholly  original  and  spontaneous. 
"My  dear  God,"  it  ran,  "bless  all  the  people  I 
love.  Give  me  all  the  fings  I  need.  Make  me 
the  best  kind  of  a  man.  Amen." 

August  22nd,   1902. —  If   Stanley  would  only 


90  Note-Book  of 

express  himself  in  elegant  phraseology,  how  much 
more  impressive  he  might  make  his  remarks  on 
omniscience !  To-day  he  said :  ' '  I  know  why  God 
knows  the  most  about  me.  It  's  because  He 
made  me.  Of  course  He  knows  everyfing  what 
it  inside  of  me,  even  what  I  fink.  I  bet  if  I  'd 
made  anybody  I  'd  know  what  was  inside  of 
him." 

August  26th,  1902. — How  much  there  is  in  the 
gentle  art  of  managing!  If  I  remember  rightly, 
David  Harum  said  of  his  one-time  clerk,  Chet 
Timson :  "Chet  's  a  good  feller  but  he  has  n't  got 
tack."  And  I  am  constantly  surprised  by  the 
number  of  people  who  not  only  have  n't  "tack," 
but  do  not  care  to  have  it.  A  most  estimable 
lady  of  my  acquaintance  considers  it  beneath  her 
dignity  to  "manage."  So  should  I  consider  it 
beneath  mine,  if  management  meant  the  use  of 
unworthy  means  or  even  the  use  of  worthy  means 
for  an  unworthy  end,  but  when  it  includes  such 
details  as  the  asking  favors  of  a  tired  man  after  a 
good  dinner  instead  of  when  he  is  hungry,  I  con- 
sider it  most  commendable. 

Don't  I  know  how  it  feels  to  be  tired,  half- 
starved,  and  more  than  half  inclined  to  be  cross  at 
the  close  of  a  hard  day's  work?  Don't  I  know 
how  it  feels  to  be  unreasonable,  and  realize  all 
the  time  that  I  am  so?  Indeed  I  do,  and  I  have 
an  extra  warm  corner  in  my  heart  for  people  who 


An  Adopted  Mother  91 

love  me  enough  to  consider  my  temporary  weak- 
ness and  humor  it,  even  if  it  might  be  called  man- 
aging. Though  it  may  be  perfectly  evident  what 
they  are  doing,  still  I  love  them  the  better  for  it, 
and  I  gave  Ernest  useful  hints  along  this  line  soon 
after  we  were  married. 

I  have  a  notion  that  those  who  will  not  consider 
these  fine  points  get  their  punishment  as  they  go 
along,  without  ever  recognizing  it  as  such.  They 
are  the  ones  who  think  that  people  are  never  will- 
ing to  do  them  favors,  who  find  themselves  un- 
popular without  knowing  why,  and  who  are 
forever  encountering  little  obstacles  in  the  carrying 
out  of  any  plan  which  requires  the  co-operation 
of  others. 

I  am  by  no  means  a  believer  in  what  somebody 
has  called  "the  painless  education."  I  believe 
that  far  more  than  half  the  good  of  education  lies 
in  the  training  to  hard  work,  concentration,  and 
even  the  doing  of  distasteful  tasks ;  but  little  chil- 
dren have  so  much  to  master  at  once  and  so  many 
more  distractions  than  adults,  that  it  is  encumbent 
on  parents  to  learn  to  manage.  It  has  been  said 
that  if  one  wishes  to  know  the  reason  why  he 
should  be  patient  with  children,  he  should  try  to 
write  with  his  left  hand,  provided  he  is  not  left- 
handed  to  begin  with,  and  then  remember  that  a 
child  is  left-handed  from  head  to  foot,  and  left- 
handed  in  brain  and  morals  as  well. 

There  are  many  times  when  it  is  not  necessary 


92  Note-Book  of 

to  raise  the  issue,  even  if  it  is  one  which  has  to  be 
raised  and  settled  eventually.  One  may  advance 
most  rapidly  by  making  haste  slowly,  and  there 
is  a  great  deal  in  waiting  for  the  psychological 
moment  before  starting  in  on  what  is  likely  to  be 
a  trying  and  tedious  contest  of  wills.  In  child- 
training,  as  elsewhere,  no  question  is  ever  settled 
until  it  is  settled  right,  and  it  is  foolish  to  start 
in  when  for  any  special  reason  the  chances  are 
strongly  against  success.  For  instance,  if  it  were 
necessary  to  make  a  decided  stand  against  some 
exasperating  habit  in  a  child,  and  I  felt  that  it 
would  mean  a  long  struggle  of  wills,  with  the 
possibility  of  my  having  to  use  constraint,  shut- 
ting-up,  the  tying  of  hands,  or  other  means  of 
punishment,  I  would  rather  temporize  as  much  as 
possible  without  too  great  a  sacrifice  of  parental 
dignity,  until  an  occasion  arose  on  a  morning 
when  the  child  was  rested  and  fairly  reasonable 
and  I  was  sure  of  both  my  own  self-control 
and  freedom  from  interruption.  Then  I  would 
hold  to  my  point  with  infinite  patience  until  I 
conquered. 

It  is  not  the  quickest  and  sharpest  methods 
which  produce  the  best  results.  Neither  are  they 
economical  of  time  in  the  long  run.  The  child 
who  is  absolutely  sure  that  his  little  sins  will  be 
noticed  and  that  there  is  no  escaping  condemna- 
tion seldom  requires  severe  punishment.  It  is 
the  one  whose  parents  laugh  at  sauciness  as 


An  Adopted  Mother  93 

"cute"  one  day  and  reprimand  it  as  impertinence 
the  next  who  is  most  apt  to  create  scenes.  The 
battle  of  child-training,  it  strikes  me,  is  more  than 
half  won  when  the  child  has  become  thoroughly 
convinced  that  you  place  his  growth  in  righteous- 
ness above  every  other  consideration,  and  will 
make  any  sacrifice,  of  your  own  comfort  as  well 
as  of  his,  to  secure  that  end.  Once  it  is  secured, 
the  severity  of  the  punishment  is  not  so  impor- 
tant, as  long  as  there  is  absolute  steadiness  and 
faithfulness  on  the  part  of  the  parent. 

I  heard  such  a  funny  instance  of  this  a  few  days 
since,  something  which  a  friend  of  mine  saw  in 
the  family  of  another  friend.  The  father  in  this 
family  is  a  clergyman,  and  there  are  three  wide- 
awake and  very  well-trained  children.  The  mother 
was  entertaining  callers.  The  five-year-old  son 
disturbed  her.  She  spoke  to  him  twice,  but  could 
not  leave  the  room  to  enforce  her  request  for 
quiet.  Then  she  called  to  her  husband.  He 
came  gravely  down  from  his  study,  took  the 
offending  child  by  the  hand,  led  him  into  the 
dining-room,  pointed  him  to  a  chair  in  the  corner, 
took  a  graham  cracker  from  the  table,  and  said : 
"Eat  that  at  once  and  decide  that  you  will  be  a 
good  boy."  Instantly  the  child  was  tearful  and 
penitent.  Now  what  did  it?  First,  I  should  say, 
the  consciousness  that  his  offence  was  considered 
sufficiently  important  to  make  his  father  leave  the 
preparation  of  a  sermon.  Second,  the  extremely 


94  Note-Book  of 

grave  look  on  his  father's  face.  And  last  and 
least,  the  thought  of  banishment  from  his  play- 
things. 

As  for  the  graham  cracker?  That  was  hardly  a 
penance,  but  it  may  have  had  its  part  in  breaking 
the  current  of  the  child's  thought,  as  well  as  in 
fortifying  the  little  inner  man.  Most  people 
know  that  hunger  is  not  conducive  to  serenity, 
and  showmen  never  risk  it  in  members  of  the 
"happy  family/*  else  strife  would  result. 

I  remember  two  instances  of  ' '  seeing  it  through" 
in  my  own  life  as  mission  kindergartner.  Both 
concerned  the  spitting  habit,  which  was  then 
epidemic  in  the  district.  The  loss  of  the  first 
front  tooth  makes  such  a  convenient  and  tempt- 
ing orifice  for  expectoration,  and  I  was  in  a 
Swedish  neighborhood.  The  commendable  Scan- 
dinavian tenacity  of  purpose  shows  early  in  life. 
Bert  spat  upon  the  floor  just  before  dismissal  and 
I  told  him  he  must  stay  and  scrub  it.  However, 
when  I  was  lifting  a  little  cripple  down  the  steps, 
he  dodged  past  and  fled  with  derisive  yells  to  his 
home  half  a  mile  away.  I  was  a  new  teacher,  and 
he  did  not  dream  of  pursuit,  especially  as  the  day 
was  of  the  breathless,  scorching  kind,  but  this 
could  not  be  passed  over. 

I  attended  to  other  details,  got  his  address, 
donned  my  hat,  walked  to  his  home,  interviewed 
his  mother,  and  took  him  away  from  a  tempting 
dinner  before  he  had  tasted  a  mouthful ;  led  him 


An  Adopted  Mother  95 

back  over  the  hot  and  weary  way,  he  blubbering 
at  every  step,  and  watched  him  get  water  and  a 
cloth  and  wash  the  floor  for  five  full  minutes  by 
the  clock.  There  being  no  time  left  for  eating,  I 
fasted  from  breakfast  until  four  o'clock  that  day, 
yet  it  paid  most  gloriously.  Henceforth  the  bad 
boy  of  the  kindergarten  was  a  changed  character, 
and  not  only  that,  but  every  child  of  the  twenty 
at  the  table  felt  the  influence,  for  the  facts  became 
known  and  it  was  generally  understood  that  the 
new  teacher  meant  business.  Spitting  became 
unfashionable  at  once. 

A  day  or  two  before  this  there  had  been  another 
rather  funny  incident.  This  time  it  was  Chris 
who  spat.  At  the  second  offence  I  signalled  the 
Director,  whisked  him  out  of  the  room,  stood  him 
in  the  corner  of  a  corridor,  placed  a  large  bucket 
before  him,  sat  down  with  my  book  in  a  rocker  in 
front  of  him,  and  said  that  this  was  a  better  place 
for  him  than  the  main  room.  "Spit  all  you  want 
to  now,"  I  said  sweetly.  "I  see  that  you  cannot 
help  it,  because  you  did  not  stop  when  I  asked 
you  to." 

"Don't  want  to  spit,"  he  muttered  between 
closed  teeth. 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  you  must,"  I  replied,  "and  I 
will  wait  here  until  you  are  through." 

Well,  he  would  n't  and  I  said  that  he  should. 
He  said  I  would  have  to  go  back  to  the  other 
room.  I  assured  him  that  the  Director  would 


96  Note-Book  of 

care  for  my  children.  He  said  I  would  have  to 
go  to  dinner.  I  reminded  him  that  I  had  brought 
my  lunch  that  morning.  He  said  the  rooms 
would  be  locked  up  at  one  o'clock.  I  replied  that 
they  would  be  open  for  a  mothers'  meeting  that 
afternoon,  and  that  although  I  should  prefer  to 
be  out  with  the  rest,  I  was  willing  to  stay  with 
him  as  long  as  was  required  to  have  him  finish 
spitting.  He  vowed  he  would  not  spit,  and  I 
turned  another  leaf  in  my  book.  At  the  end  of 
an  hour  he  made  his  first  concession.  I  kept  him 
at  it  for  ten  minutes.  Then  I  said  :  "Perhaps  that 
will  do  for  this  morning,  and  if  you  have  to  spit 
to-morrow  we  will  come  out  here  again."  But 
that  finished  Chris.  He  was  regenerated  before 
Bert's  more  public  experience  caused  a  wave  of 
righteousness  to  pass  over  our  corner  of  the  room. 
He  must  be  a  young  man  now.  I  wonder  how 
he  remembers  me  ?  and  if  he  has  developed  a 
sense  of  humor? 

Sometimes  a  playful  fancy  will  help  a  child  with 
the  things  which  he  has  to  do  when  tired  and  list- 
less. The  great  bugbear  of  Stanley's  days  at  the 
cottage  is  the  scrubbing  up  before  dinner.  He  is 
much  interested  in  fossils,  which  abound  here, 
and  one  day  when  there  were  goose-pimples  on 
his  legs  he  exclaimed  :  "Why,  my  legs  look  just 
like  fossils,  fossil  coral,  you  know,  but  not  Petos- 
keys. ' '  That  gave  me  a  cue,  and  afterward,  when 
he  was  especially  tired,  I  suggested  he  should 


An  Adopted  Mother  97 

play  that  he  was  polishing  fossils  as  they  do  Pe- 
toskey  stones.  It  has  never  failed,  and  his  "fossil 
legs  "  are  scrubbed  until  they  shine. 

Another  fancy  that  helps  him  greatly  is  imagin- 
ing how  much  worse  it  would  be  when  he  hurt 
himself  if  he  were  a  piece  of  furniture,  for  then 
the  marks  would  remain.  "It  's  a  good  fing  I  'm 
not  a  bedstead  now,"  he  often  says,  holding  out 
an  injured  member.  "How  do  you  fink  that  leg 
would  get  well  if  I  was?  "  These  times  are  fre- 
quently enlivened,  for  his  seniors,  at  least,  by  his 
alluding  to  the  "cigars  on  his  feet,"  he  confound- 
ing the  word  "scars  "  with  "cigars." 

Another  point  in  the  gentle  art  of  managing  is 
the  praising  of  virtues  instead  of  criticizing  the 
corresponding  faults,  as  often  as  possible.  It  is 
so  easy  to  fall  into  the  habit  of  nagging,  than 
which  there  are  few  habits  more  fatal  to  success. 
I  drifted  into  it  in  regard  to  table  manners  a  few 
months  ago,  and  matters  went  from  bad  to  worse 
until  I  dreaded  meal-hours.  Then  I  quit  and 
awaited  opportunities  for  deserved  praise.  Within 
a  week  the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  dining-room 
was  changed,  and  faults  have  been  overcome  to  a 
wonderful  degree. 

Allied  to  this  method  is  that  of  non-resistance. 
I  find  it  is  poor  policy  for  me  to  take  notice  of  a 
single  irritable  retort,  beyond  looking  grieved  and 
either  walking  gravely  away  or  keeping  silence  for 
a  long  time.  This  seldom  fails  to  bring  a  quick 


93  Note-Book  of 

"Pardon  me!  I  am  sorry."  If  the  offence  is  re- 
peated  there  is  still  time  for  me  to  send  Stanley 
to  sit  quietly  somewhere  and  think  it  over.  On 
the  same  principle  I  have  learned  not  to  keep  re- 
minding him  to  attend  to  his  dressing  in  the  morn- 
ing. After  one  reminder  I  say:  "You  are  old 
enough  to  attend  to  business,  and  this  is  your 
business.  When  you  are  late  to  breakfast  it  will 
be  your  own  fault  if  you  have  cold  food  and  per- 
haps small  portions." 

But  instances  multiply  and  this  record  must 
not  be  extended.  After  all,  the  principal  thing 
is  for  parents  to  bring  the  golden  rule  down  to 
all  the  details  of  life,  remembering  that  children 
have  even  more  foibles  and  besetments  than  they, 
with  much  less  experience  in  mastering  them, 
and  also  that,  as  the  old  Quaker  said  to  his  wife: 
"The  whole  world  is  queer  except  thee  and  me, 
and  I  sometimes  think  thee  is  a  little  peculiar." 

August  30th,  1902. — Stanley  has  had  another 
bout  with  his  temper  to-day,  and  I  have  made 
another  and  apparently  successful  effort  to  utilize 
his  warlike  spirit  in  this  connection.  He  has  the 
usual  five-year-old  longing  to  become  a  soldier 
when  he  grows  up,  and  I  have  told  him  that  he 
need  not  wait  until  then,  that  no  boy  is  too  young 
to  be  a  Christian  soldier  if  he  will  fight  bravely  all 
the  naughtiness  there  is  in  him.  So  when  I  see 
his  temper  rising  I  say:  "Stanley,  you  have  a 


An  Adopted  Mother  99 

chance  to  fight  now.  I  hope  you  will  beat."  If 
I  speak  quickly  enough  it  often  appeals  to  his 
fancy  and  he  fights  it  out  alone. 

He  has  different  ways  of  doing  this,  and  usually 
seeks  some  form  of  expression  for  the  battle  rag- 
ing within.  Sometimes  he  goes  into  a  corner  and 
pummels  sofa  pillows  for  a  few  minutes.  Some- 
times he  doubles  up  his  fists  and  dances  around 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  sparring  at  the  air  until 
he  ends  in  a  laugh  and  comes  up  to  be  kissed. 
Of  one  thing  I  am  positive:  for  months  I  have 
not  justly  estimated  his  own  efforts  at  self-con- 
trol. I  have  thought  too  much  of  his  lack  of  suc- 
cess and  not  enough  of  the  evidences  of  struggle 
against  evil. 

My  conscience  particularly  accuses  me  of  re- 
fusing to  caress  him  if  he  tried  to  embrace  me 
when  his  face  was  flushed  and  angry  and  his  mo- 
tion abrupt  and  fretful.  I  have  thought  he  was 
determined  to  assert  his  privileges  even  while  in 
rebellion  against  his  duties.  I  know  now  that  he 
wanted  a  little  help  and  strength  from  me  to  turn 
the  battle  in  favor  of  the  right.  I  know  also 
what  it  means  when  he  so  often  pauses  to  ask: 
"  Mother,  do  you  love  me  even  when  I  am 
naughty?  Do  you  love  me  right  now?  " 

And  I  have  acquired  enough  wisdom  to  reply : 
"Yes,  I  love  you  very  dearly,  even  when  you  are 
naughty,  but  I  cannot  be  happy  with  you  or  enjoy 
having  you  around  until  you  are  good  again." 


ioo  Note-Book  of 

Stanley's  ideals  are  all  right.  He  does  not 
think  it  smart  to  be  naughty  and  namby-pamby 
to  be  good,  and  down  in  his  heart  he  has  an  added 
love  and  respect  for  people  who  insist  on  holding 
him  up  to  his  best.  His  trouble  is  the  same  that 
many  adults  have:  he  cannot  always  keep  his 
conduct  up  to  his  own  ideals.  Yet  I  am  not  at 
all  afraid  for  the  outcome  of  this  long  struggle 
with  his  temper  on  which  he  has  entered,  for  he 
has  begun  it  early,  he  has  a  strong  will,  and  it  is 
our  ideals  which  little  by  little  shape  our  charac- 
ter. Besides,  I  have  fought  over  exactly  the 
same  ground  myself,  and  firmly  believe  that  the 
most  even  and  serene  people  are  not  those  who 
have  never  felt  the  tuggings  and  burnings  of 
strong  temper,  but  those  who  have  fought  and 
conquered  it.  If  properly  trained  it  is  surely  an 
element  of  strength  in  character,  and  parents 
should  not  begrudge  the  extra  trouble  it  makes 
in  the  rearing  of  children. 

That  even  a  little  child  may  come  to  appreciate 
the  part  a  mother  has  to  play  is  also  sure,  for  less 
than  a  week  ago  Stanley  said  to  me,  after  a  long 
contest  of  wills:  "What  would  I  ever  do  if  I  had 
another  kind  of  mother?"  And  last  night  he 
said,  speaking  of  a  schoolmate  of  his:  "Roy  Sin- 
clair's mother  is  just  as  mean !  She  lets  him  do 
anyfing  he  wants  to,  and  that  is  not  being  a  good 
mother,  'cause  there  are  lots  of  fings  what  he 
had  n't  ought  to." 


An  Adopted  Mother  101 

But  this  is  not  what  I  had  started  to  do,  chron- 
icle our  conversation  of  to-day.  When  he  had 
vanquished  his  temper  and  was  still  talking  of 
battles,  he  wanted  to  know  if  I  thought  him 
strong  enough  to  knock  people  down.  I  said  he 
might  possibly  knock  down  small  children,  but 
that  even  if  he  were  strong  enough  to  knock  down 
big  men,  he  ought  to  use  his  strength  in  other 
ways. 

He  then  asked  if  anybody  was  strong  enough 
to ' '  knock  down  a  whole  city f ul  of  people. ' '  This 
was  such  a  good  opening  that  I  quoted  and  inter- 
preted to  him  that  verse  from  Proverbs :  "He  that 
is  slow  to  anger  is  better  than  the  mighty ;  and  he 
that  ruleth  his  spirit  than  he  that  taketh  a  city." 
This  was  a  new  idea  to  him,  and  he  has  infinite 
respect  for  the  Bible  as  a  final  authority.  I  re- 
peated that  the  strength  was  a  better  kind  than 
just  strength  of  muscles,  but  his  ideas  were  natur- 
ally somewhat  hazy  on  metaphysical  points,  and 
he  decided  to  use  the  vast  strength  which  he 
meant  to  acquire,  in  working  for  a  whole  cityful 
of  children  whom  he  would  adopt  when  old 
enough.  "Won't  that  be  sweet?  "  he  asked.  "I 
will  take  care  of  piles  of  children,  but  I  won't 
knock  folks  down."  I  wonder  how  I  shall  enjoy 
being  a  doubly  adopted  grandmother  to  several 
hundred  (or  perhaps  thousand)  waifs. 

In  spite  of  his  afternoon  of  struggle,  or  possibly 
because  of  it,  our  day  ended  very  sweetly.  He 


102  Note-Book  of 

asked  me  to  say  a  prayer  for  him  when  he  was 
ready  for  bed,  feeling  that  he  was  too  tired  to  say 
it  himself,  but  promising  that  he  would  "fink 
about  it  and  say  amen."  At  the  close,  I  said, 
"and  bless  this  tired  little  boy."  Instead  of 
echoing  my  "amen"  he  reached  up  one  soft  little 
hand,  patted  my  cheek,  and  added  reverently, 
"And  bless  my  dear,  tired  mother,  too.  Amen." 

September  ^th,  1902. — We  have  left  our  little 
summer  paradise  behind  once  more,  and  the  leav- 
ing, which  is  always  rather  hard  for  me,  was  very 
much  enlivened  by  the  presence  of  our  small  boy. 
I  am  so  strongly  attached  to  the  spot  which  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  rescuing  from  the  wilderness,  look- 
ing after  all  the  pioneering  details  myself  with 
Indians  to  wield  the  axe  and  white  men  for  saw 
and  hammer,  that  it  is  always  a  wrench  to  steam 
away  from  it  and  watch  the  shore  receding  from 
view,  to  think  how  the  squirrels  and  chipmunks 
will  frisk  unmolested  on  the  porches  where  we 
have  been  so  happy,  and,  worst  of  all,  to  wonder 
what  changes  will  take  place  during  the  year  in 
our  coterie  of  summer  neighbors.  Many  States 
are  represented  in  our  settlement,  and  it  is  parting 
for  ten  months  when  we  separate.  The  cottage 
looks  so  desolate  when  reduced  to  fighting  trim 
for  the  winter,  that  there  is  always  a  lump  in  my 
throat. 

We  took  the  one  o'clock  boat,  many  of  our 


An  Adopted  Mother  103 

friends  coming  to  see  us  off.  Stanley  had  been 
allowed  to  trot  around  and  say  farewell  in  the 
morning,  while  he  was  still  barefooted  and  in  out- 
ing costume.  Ordinarily  it  is  understood  that  he 
must  save  his  kisses  for  members  of  the  family, 
but  this  morning  there  was  a  special  dispensation. 
One  family  of  playmates  he  missed  because  of 
their  absence.  They  atoned  for  it  by  coming  to 
the  dock  to  see  us  off.  By  that  time  Stanley  was 
ready  for  civilization,  while  they  were  still  dressed 
for  roughing  it.  When  they  wanted  to  kiss  him, 
he  drew  back.  "I  am  afraid  I  will  get  my  face 
dirty,"  he  explained  with  childish  candor,  and  I 
am  not  yet  quite  certain  on  whom  the  joke  fell. 
I  rather  think,  from  the  way  in  which  my  friends 
laughed  and  I  blushed,  that  I  came  in  for  a  share. 

Our  second  day  was  spent  on  the  cars,  with  a 
number  of  changes  and  wearisome  waits  at  small 
stations.  It  was  very,  very  hot  and  dusty,  and 
we  felt  it  all  the  more  because  coming  from  such 
a  land  of  pure  delight.  Drawing-room  cars  were 
often  out  of  the  question,  and  only  the  habit  of 
seeing  the  bright  side  of  things  tided  us  over.  I 
do  not  think  any  of  our  party  mentioned  the 
heat.  We  simply  ignored  it  as  far  as  possible. 

Ernest  had  preceded  us  home,  in  the  fashion  of 
the  typical  American  husband,  and  Stanley  felt 
responsible  for  my  welfare.  After  settling  me 
comfortably  somewhere,  he  always  devoted  him- 
self to  the  flora  and  fauna  of  the  region.  A  fat 


104  Note-Book  of 

cricket  amused  him  during  the  first  wait.  The 
second  was  given  to  harvesting  twenty-nine  wild 
cucumbers  of  various  sizes  and  degrees  of  prickli- 
ness.  These  were  taken  on  board  the  next  train, 
counted,  arranged  in  one  row,  arranged  in  two 
rows,  grouped  in  families,  done  up  in  a  handker- 
chief, emptied  out  of  the  handkerchief,  and  com- 
bined in  various  ways  until  they  were  limp  and 
wilted.  Then  they  were  dropped  from  the  win- 
dow, one  at  every  third  telegraph  pole. 

The  last  wait  we  spent  in  some  pleasant  school- 
grounds  near  the  small  station.  Here  he  watched 
ants  and  captured  a  caterpillar.  He  found  a 
small  box  for  the  latter  and  carried  him  onto  the 
train  (with  the  conductor's  permission),  where  he 
devoted  himself  to  "catching  flies  to  be  company 
for  the  nice  little  caterpillar."  As  usual,  he 
greatly  edified  his  fellow-passengers,  and  quite 
unconsciously,  going  off  alone  into  the  empty 
corner  of  the  car  and  amusing  himself  quietly, 
only  coming  across  once  in  a  while  to  make  sure 
that  I  was  all  right. 

We  were  en  route  for  ten  dusty,  sweltering 
hours  that  day,  and  although  his  flushed  little 
face  was  covered  with  beads  of  perspiration  and 
the  fatigue  shadows  darkened  under  his  eyes,  not 
one  fretful  word  did  he  speak.  Always  thinking 
of  my  comfort  and  ignoring  his  own,  he  diverted 
himself  all  day  with  trifles  to  which  most  children 
would  be  indifferent.  As  we  drew  near  home 


An  Adopted  Mother  105 

and  were  vainly  trying  to  make  ourselves  present- 
able, he  said:  "I  shall  be  glad  to  get  home,  won't 
you?  But  I  fink  we  have  had  a  vurry  nice  trip, 
don't  you?  I  have  n't  said  a  single  fing  what  I 
had  n't  ought  to,  and  I  have  n't  made  any  fuss, 
and  I  have  n't  'sturbed  you,  have  I?  I  fink  that 
is  a  pretty  good  trip." 

That  this  sweetness  cost  effort  was  shown  by 
what  he  said  the  next  morning.  "I  had  a  shiny 
face,  did  n't  I,  last  night?  I  kept  it  all  smiled  up, 
but  I  was  so  tired  that  it  was  vurry,  vurry,  vurry, 
vurry  hard  to  do." 

He  has  had  much  to  tell  Ernest  of  the  noise 
which  the  cars  made  when  going  over  "the  bum- 
peners  "  (the  places  where  the  rails  are  joined), 
and  of  his  last  fishing  exploits.  ' '  Norman  caught 
bursts  and  perches  and  black  basses,"  he  says, 
"but  I  caught  minnies.  Do  you  know  what 
minnies  are?  They  are  just  heads  of  tails,  that  is 
all." 

Home  has  had  to  be  re-discovered,  and  at 
every  turn  he  has  exclaimed :  ' '  Why,  I  had  for- 
gotten all  about  that !  Is  n't  that  funny?  "  He 
must  have  grown  like  a  weed  in  our  absence,  for 
he  is  now  able  to  stand  upon  the  floor  while 
washing  in  the  bowl,  whereas  before  going  north 
he  had  to  use  a  hassock.  His  great  faith  in  the 
efficacy  of  bread  and  milk  has  made  him  resolve 
to  "eat  it  in  days  too,"  as  well  as  at  dinner-time, 
so  as  to  grow  even  faster.  "Just  fink,  Mother," 


106  Note-Book  of 

he  said  gravely,  "my  stomach  has  taken  all  that 
strong  and  grow  out  of  the  food  and  made  it  into 
more  me. " 

Later  he  had  misgivings.  "When  I  am  as  tall 
as  God  wants  me  to  be,"  he  asked,  "how  do  I 
stop  growing?  S'posing  I  did  n't  stop — then  I  'd 
be  a  giant.  But  I  would  n't  hurt  people.  I  'd 
be  a  kind  giant.  Only  I  would  fight  other  giants, 
'cause  if  I  did  n't  they  might  hurt  folks." 

We  are  adjusting  ourselves  again  to  the  old 
ways  of  living,  home,  and  school,  and  proceed  in 
orderly  fashion  already,  even  though  we  have  to 
get  along  simply  for  a  while.  It  is  hot,  and  noth- 
ing but  my  wish  to  be  here  at  the  opening  of 
school  induced  me  to  return  so  early.  I  know 
that  Stanley  could  have  made  up  the  lessons 
missed  in  a  fortnight  stolen  from  the  term,  but  I 
fancy  it  is  worth  whatever  sacrifice  of  comfort  we 
both  have  made  to  have  him  feel  that  when 
school  is  in  session  he  belongs  at  his  desk.  As 
for  the  heat,  we  can  stand  it  as  well  as  those  who 
have  borne  it  all  summer,  although  Stanley  has 
just  run  in  to  plead  for  lighter  clothing.  "I  am 
so  sweaty,"  he  says.  "Why,  I  am  even  sweaty 
inside  my  mouf.  Just  see !  " 

September  8th,  1902. — I  am  very  proud  of  my 
little  boy  to-night  for  the  quite  unexpected  way 
in  which  he  practised  what  I  have  been  preaching. 
I  have  told  him  many  times  that  if  he  could  n't 


An  Adopted  Mother  107 

conquer  his  temper  alone  he  must  let  God  help 
him.  One  day  he  asked  just  what  I  meant  by 
that,  and  how  God  could  help  him.  Then  I 
realized  that,  considering  his  youth,  what  I  had 
said  to  him  was  no  better  than  cant. 

I  could  not  tell  him  to  kneel  and  ask  for  strength 
when  angry,  it  would  be  too  much  to  expect  from 
a  child  of  his  age  and  temper.  With  some  children 
it  might  work,  but  he  could  not  possibly  feel  the 
prayer  that  his  lips  might  offer  at  such  a  time,  and 
I  do  not  wish  him  to  feel  that  there  is  virtue  in 
lip-prayer  only. 

So  I  told  him  that  God  is  always  willing  to 
help  those  who  will  let  Him,  and  that  the  best  way 
for  my  boy  would  be  to  go  off  by  himself  when 
he  felt  his  temper  rising  and  keep  just  as  still  as 
he  could.  I  said  :  "If  you  learn  to  do  that,  you 
will  find  that  God  does  help  you,  and  you  will 
soon  become  stronger  than  your  temper." 

This  afternoon  he  was  on  the  verge  of  an  ex- 
plosion, when  he  suddenly  turned  and  ran  into 
my  room,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock  behind  him. 
I  thought  him  bent  on  mischief  and  tip-toed  close 
to  the  door  to  listen.  It  was  absolutely  still 
within,  and  I  was  hardly  back  to  my  sewing  when 
the  lock  grated  again  and  he  came  out  smiling. 
"You  'd  better  fink  we  licked  that  temper  good," 
said  he.  And  that  was  the  close  of  the  incident. 

I  know  there  will  yet  be  many  trying  times 
when  his  failure  will  be  as  dismal  as  to-day's 


io8  Note-Book  of 

success  was  brilliant,  but  I  mean  to  keep  this  in 
both  his  mind  and  my  own,  and  hope  to  have  it  re- 
peated. Surely  I  ought  never  to  feel  discouraged 
over  a  little  lad  who  has  proved  himself  to  this 
extent. 

September  nth,  1902. — I  wish  people  would 
stop  thinking  that  the  nature-study  ideal  is  a 
course  in  elementary  science.  The  two  may 
charmingly  supplement  each  other,  and  the  parent 
or  teacher  who  has  a  knowledge  of  elementary 
science  is  fortunate  indeed,  but  to  my  mind  nature 
study  means  rather  a  coming  into  sympathy  with 
all  out-of-door  life.  In  one  of  his  novels  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes  says  what  I  mean  far  better  than 
I  can  say  it.  In  describing  Cyprian  Eveleth  he 
says:  "He  loved  the  leaf  after  its  kind  as  well  as 
the  flower  and  the  root  as  well  as  the  leaf,  and  did 
not  exhaust  his  capacity  of  affection  or  admira- 
tion on  the  blossom  or  bud.  Thus  Nature  took 
him  into  her  confidence.  She  loves  the  men  of 
science  well  and  tells  them  of  all  her  secrets — who 
is  the  father  of  this  or  that  member  of  the  group, 
who  is  brother,  sister,  cousin,  and  so  on  through 
all  the  circle  of  relationship.  But  there  are  others 
to  whom  she  tells  her  dreams ;  not  what  species 
or  genus  her  lily  belongs  to,  but  what  vague 
thought  it  has  when  it  dresses  in  white,  or  what 
memory  of  its  birthplace  that  is  which  we  call  its 
fragrance. 


An  Adopted  Mother  109 

I  am  not  planning  to  train  my  boy  as  a  poet 
when  I  let  his  sweet  little  fancies  about  flowers 
and  birds  go  unchecked.  I  am  only  letting  him 
acquire  a  taste  for  the  sweetest,  most  wholesome, 
and  least  expensive  pleasures  in  the  world.  He 
asked  me  the  other  day:  "Which  place  do  you 
like  better,  this  place  or  the  cottage  (our  summer 
home  in  the  north  woods)?" 

"The  cottage." 

"O  Mother,  I  knew  you  'd  say  that.  We 
don't  reelly  like  any  place  without  woods,  do 
we?" 

Some  of  our  most  interesting  talks  along  nat- 
ural-history lines  are  far  from  being  poetical. 
The  young  servant-girl  whom  I  took  north  with 
me  this  season  had  never  cleaned  fish,  so  when  one 
of  our  neighbors  sent  in  several  fine  bass,  I  dressed 
the  first  one  to  show  her  how.  Stanley  happened 
along  at  just  the  right  time  to  get  the  benefit  of 
it,  so  as  I  worked  I  told  him  about  the  different 
parts  of  the  fish's  body,  how  he  wiggled  his  tail 
to  make  himself  go  ahead,  how  he  spread  his  fins 
to  slow  down,  how  he  breathed  water  instead  of 
air,  and  then  I  spread  out  the  feathery  branchia 
which  take  the  place  of  lungs  in  a  fish. 

The  internal  organs  were  intensely  interesting 
to  Stanley,  and  after  I  had  finished  my  part  of 
the  work  he  stood  beside  Nettie  to  see  the  process 
repeated,  appealing  often  to  me  to  make  sure  that 
he  remembered  their  functions  correctly.  When 


no  Note-Book  of 

the  task  was  ended  he  turned  to  me  with  the  hap- 
piest of  sighs,  saying:  "Did  n't  we  have  a  lovely 
visit  'bout  that  fish,  Mother?" 

Often  he  reverses  our  relations  and  instructs  me 
in  that  queer  compound  of  common  sense  and 
superstition  which  small  boys  acquire  in  their 
intercourse  by  the  side  of  ponds  and  brooks. 
"Horsehairs  do  turn  into  snakes,  Mother,"  he 
says.  "Edwin  told  me  so,  and  he  showed  me  a 
hair  what  was  going  to  turn.  I  know  what  an 
insect  is.  It  's  a  dragging-fly  or  a  butterfly  or  a 
caterpillar  or  a  bug,  but  not  a  spider.  That  frog 
is  a  mate,  Mother." 

"And  what  is  a  mate,  dear?  " 

"Why,  it  is  one  what  has  little  baby  ones." 

Yesterday,  when  I  had  been  imitating  the  croak 
of  the  tree-toads  for  him,  he  said  :  "Mother,  what 
do  they  say  when  they  say  that  ? ' ' 

"We  cannot  understand,  dear." 

"Tell  you  what  I  fink.  I  fink  they  are  telling 
God  that  they  would  like  a  little  more  rain  if  you 
please,  and  of  course  He  could  understand." 

I  sometimes  wonder  where  he  gets  all  his 
quaint,  reverent  little  ideas,  but  do  not  like  to 
check  his  happy  confidences  by  questioning  too 
closely.  One  day  he  said:  "Just  watch  that 
little  caterpillar  wobble  his  cunning  little  head. 
You  said  he  was  my  little  caterpillar,  but  reelly, 
you  know,  he  is  God's  little  caterpillar." 

We  fed  this  same  caterpillar  until  he  was  full- 


An  Adopted  Mother  in 

grown,  let  him  go  into  chrysalis  in  a  suitable  box, 
and  saw  him  emerge,  eleven  days  later,  a  beautiful 
great  Monarch  butterfly.  On  the  day  that  he 
came  out,  Stanley's  delight  knew  no  bounds. 
He  would  even  have  gone  without  dinner,  if  per- 
mitted, for  the  sake  of  watching  the  butterfly. 
And  I  was  amused  by  the  way  in  which  he  inter- 
preted the  insect's  motions  according  to  human 
motives.  He  sees  me  taking  calisthenics  every 
morning,  so  when  the  butterfly  was  slowly  spread- 
ing and  folding  his  wings,  pumping  into  them 
from  his  over-fat  body  the  fluids  which  were  to 
expand  and  strengthen  them,  Stanley  exclaimed : 
"That  is  right,  little  butterfly!  Take  your  exer- 
cises and  pretty  soon  you  will  be  strong  enough 
to  fly." 

Some  of  his  questions  are  very  baffling.  I 
think  the  most  puzzling  one  was  when  he  insisted 
upon  knowing  if  there  were  any  "wild  nerotions  " 
around.  He  thought  they  were  very  big,  and  he 
knew  they  liked  to  be  on  rocks.  He  was  afraid 
that  they  were  fierce.  After  a  week  of  genuine 
detective  work  I  found  that  he  had  overheard  a 
geological  neighbor  of  ours  talk  about  an  erosion 
of  the  rocks.  He  had  asked  the  gentleman  some 
questions  and  been  put  off  with  an  answer  that  he 
could  not  understand.  Ignorance  and  childish 
fears  had  done  the  rest. 

It  seems  absurd,  I  know,  to  call  all  this  sort  of 
thing  a  study,  yet  after  all  it  is  the  "little  boy 


ii2  Note-Book  of 

end  "  of  a  study,  and  if  it  served  no  other  purpose 
than  the  cultivation  of  observation,  it  would  pay. 
It  will  do  more  than  this,  however.  It  will  make 
him  original.  People  who  get  their  ideas  first- 
hand from  things,  instead  of  second-hand  from 
books  or  the  lips  of  others,  are  the  most  original. 
It  will  help  him  develop  into  a  man  who  can  be 
happy  out-of-doors,  with  or  without  golf-sticks 
and  horses,  and  it  will  tend  to  keep  him  pure  and 
with  a  proper  reverence  for  the  mystery  of  life, 
whether  in  higher  or  in  lower  forms. 

September  I5th,  1902. — Until  to-day  Stanley 
has  known  nothing  of  the  tiny  son  who  preceded 
him  in  the  home.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  speak 
calmly  of  the  baby  even  now,  and  I  have  feared 
giving  Stanley  a  terror  of  death.  I  had  also 
feared  his  feeling  that  the  baby  had  been  nearer 
to  me  than  he  could  ever  be,  a  kind  of  jealousy 
which,  if  once  begotten,  might  be  only  too  fre- 
quently fostered  by  the  thoughtless  remarks  of 
outsiders. 

This  morning  I  took  from  my  cedar  chest  a 
Scotch  cap  which  I  used  to  wear  when  sailing, 
and  offered  it  to  Stanley.  He  was  delighted, 
and  was  prancing  around  with  it  on,  admiring  the 
effect  each  time  that  he  passed  a  mirror,  when  he 
began  to  wonder  why  I  had  such  a  thing  packed 
away.  " Mother,"  said  he,  "did  you  ever  have  a 
little  boy  before?" 


An  Adopted  Mother  113 


"How  big  was  he?" 

"Just  a  little  baby,  dear." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"He  is  in  heaven." 

"Did  you  want  him  to  go  there?  Did  n't  you 
want  God  to  take  him?  Then  why  did  God  take 
him?  " 

"He  was  not  very  well,  and  I  think  God  did 
not  want  him  to  suffer." 

"You  did  n't  want  him  to  either,  did  you? 
O  Mother,  why  are  you  crying?" 

My  head  went  down  on  the  desk  and  all  I  could 
sob  out  was:  "I  miss  him  so." 

Then  came  two  little  arms  stealing  around  my 
shoulders,  awed  kisses  timidly  pressed  on  my  hair, 
my  hands,  my  shoulders  —  wherever  he  could 
touch  me  —  and  a  quivering  voice  saying:  "O 
Mother;  dear,  dear  Mother,  don't  cry!  Can't 
you  get  my  brother  to  be  your  little  boy?  My 
brother  is  ever  so  much  gooder  than  I  am." 

"No  dear,  I  do  not  need  anybody  else.  You 
will  be  a  comfort  to  me  if  you  are  my  good  little 
boy." 

"Oh,  I  will  be  so  good,  Mother,"  said  he,  with 
tearful  eyes.  "And  perhaps  some  day  God  will 
let  your  other  little  baby  come  back,  and  then  I 
will  help  you  take  care  of  him.  Mother,  perhaps 
you  could  get  my  little  baby  (the  tiny  brother 
whom  he  dimly  remembers,  and  who  is  still  to 


ii4  Note-Book  of 

him  the  ideal  of  all  that  is  winsome  in  babyhood). 
He  is  so  sweet,  and  I  would  let  you  have  him. 
He  is  just  learning  to  walk.  O  Mother,  I  will 
be  such  a  comfort  to  you,  and  I  will  take  such  care 
of  you  !  I  will  be  vurry,  vurry  good." 

He  was  sobbing  on  my  knee  when  he  finished 
speaking,  and  I  was  so  shocked  by  the  depth  of 
his  sorrow  for  me,  that  I  managed  to  crowd  back 
my  selfish  tears  and  comfort  him. 

All  through  the  day  he  has  been  devotion  itself, 
not  even  wanting  to  play  out  with  his  friends, 
lest  I  should  be  lonely,  anticipating  my  every 
wish,  and  leaving  his  toys  often  to  come  over  and 
pat  me  with  a  loving  "  We  know,  don't  we, 
Mother?  About  your  dear  little  baby,  you  know. 
But  we  won't  talk  about  him  because  that  would 
make  you  cry." 

And  again  it  was:  "I  am  afraid  Father  will 
know  that  you  have  been  crying  when  he  comes, 
and  that  makes  him  sad  for  you.  You  just  watch 
me  do  tricks  for  a  while,  dear  Mother,  and  then 
you  will  be  all  smiley  when  he  comes." 

And  this  is  the  child  who  I  feared  might  be 
jealous!  I  suppose  that  if  I  had  not  felt  the 
possibility  of  some  such  wicked  emotion  in  my- 
self, I  would  never  have  imagined  it  in  him.  His 
love  was  broader  than  the  measure  of  my  mind. 

September  i8th,  1902. —  This  noon  Stanley 
climbed  upon  my  lap  as  soon  as  he  entered  the 


An  Adopted  Mother  115 

house  and  began  lavishing  caresses  upon  me.  I 
could  hardly  spare  the  time  then  for  such  visiting, 
but  did  not  wish  to  discourage  honest  affection, 
and  thought  there  might  possibly  be  a  confession 
of  some  sort  coming.  And  who  would  ever  have 
guessed  what  it  was  to  be?  "I  cried  in  school 
this  morning,  Mother,  but  I  reelly  could  n't  help 
it.  Do  you  know  why?  It  told  about  a  baby, 
in  our  book,  and  I  fought  about  your  little  baby 
what  died,  and  I  felt  so  sorry  for  you.  But  what 
do  you  fink?  There  is  a  picture  on  the  wall  at 
our  school  of  a  mother-angel  with  a  little  baby  in 
her  arms.  And  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it  so 
you  would  n't  be  worried  about  him.  I  am  vurry 
sure  that  it  is  your  baby  and  that  God  has  told 
that  mother-angel  to  take  good  care  of  him.  She 
looked  reel  kind  and  she  had  him  all  cuddled  up 
close.  Now  I  've  told  you,  and  ar'n't  you  glad?  " 

September  2ist,  1902. — I  wonder  how  much  of 
my  little  lesson  in  geography  will  linger  in  Stan- 
ley's mind  and  how  straight  he  will  get  it. 

For  several  mornings  lately  I  have  talked  him 
into  consciousness  by  telling  of  a  small  Chinese 
boy,  whom  we  decided  to  call  Ah  Sin,  who  was 
always  going  to  bed  just  as  Stanley  was  awaken- 
ing. Sometimes  at  night  we  even  discussed  Ah 
Sin's  rising  and  morning  toilet,  which  we  were 
sure  were  even  then  taking  place  on  the  other 
side  of  the  world.  At  school  he  heard  something 


n6  Note-Book  of 

of  a  Chinese  baby  girl,  Wah  Lee,  and  our  interest 
in  things  Chinese  had  a  great  revival. 

After  all  the  other  details  were  settled  and  we 
had  conceded  that  Ah  Sin  might  .sometimes  wrig- 
gle while  his  mother  was  helping  him  dress,  but 
that  little  Wah  Lee  was  too  gentle  and  thought- 
ful to  make  any  trouble  in  that  way,  we  still  had 
to  dispose  of  the  sun.  And  the  sun  was  a  trouble- 
some problem,  for  how  was  a  five-year-old  to 
comprehend  that  it  is  the  earth's  revolving  on  its 
axis  which  makes  the  sun  appear  to  move? 

So  this  afternoon  we  had  a  Sunday  geography 
lesson.  First,  Stanley  had  to  find  the  largest  and 
roundest  red  apple  he  could.  Then  I  took  a  sharp 
little  knife  and  removed  portions  of  the  skin, 
leaving  white  spaces  to  represent  water.  The  red 
skin  remaining  showed  the  general  outline  of 
the  land  on  the  globe,  and  a  long  hat-pin  thrust 
through  the  core  made  an  excellent  axis. 

We  stuck  one  tiny  pin  into  North  America  to 
represent  Stanley  and  two  more  into  Asia  to 
represent  Ah  Sin  and  Wah  Lee.  Then  we  ex- 
tinguished all  but  a  single  electric  light,  and  that 
a  low  one,  which  proved  a  most  convenient  sun. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  Stanley  got  a  very  clear 
idea  of  the  cause  of  day  and  night  from  our  long 
talk  which  followed,  and  we  went  over  the  ground 
several  times  with  different  variations  of  our 
Americo-Chinese  tale. 

There  is  a  good  deal  in  knowing  when  to  stop, 


An  Adopted  Mother  117 

and  our  lesson  ended  with  Stanley's  wanting  the 
earth  and  getting  it — to  eat. 

September  2jth,  1902. — One  of  the  great  advan- 
tages of  a  village  life,  in  the  case  of  a  small  boy,  is 
certainly  the  chance  he  has  to  get  dirty  without 
losing  caste.  In  a  well-paved  and  upper-class 
residence  section  of  a  city  it  would  create  nothing 
short  of  a  scandal  if  a  child  were  turned  loose  in 
such  simple  attire  as  Stanley  wears  to  school. 
Perhaps  this  bondage  to  clothes  is  one  of  the 
many  reasons  why  the  population  of  cities  has  to 
be  recruited  from  the  country.  I  have  always  had 
a  fellow  feeling  for  Antaeus,  because  contact  with 
Mother  Earth  has  much  the  same  effect  upon  me 
that  it  had  upon  him.  I  do  not  enjoy  the  con- 
tact in  precisely  the  same  way  as  my  small  boy, 
but  sitting  on  a  porch  never  rests  me  as  it  does 
to  sit  upon  the  sod,  and  I  consider  a  hammock  a 
base  and  uneasy  substitute  for  a  turf  couch. 

I  confess  that  not  even  the  experiences  of  city- 
mission  life  have  deadened  me  to  the  unbecoming- 
ness  of  dirt,  and  barefooted  boys  seem  much  more 
attractive  in  poems  than  out,  but  I  have  even 
permitted  Stanley  to  go  without  shoes  and  stock- 
ings all  summer.  His  tender  little  feet  were 
covered  with  ugly  callouses  as  the  result  of  wear- 
ing heavy  and  poorly  fitting  shoes,  and  he  had  a 
croupy  reputation  which  was  evidently  deserved, 
so  I  have  let  him  rest  his  feet  and  at  the  same 


n8  Note-Book  of 

time  test  that  heroic  remedy  for  croup — going 
barefoot  as  much  as  possible.  It  has  worked  well 
so  far,  and  he  is  blissfully  happy. 

The  boys  of  all  ages  in  the  neighborhood  seem 
to  think  Stanley  a  model  of  good  nature  and 
pluck,  and  were  much  pleased  with  his  comment 
on  a  second  lad  of  his  own  age,  a  child  who  is 
always  dressed  in  the  latest  style,  kept  spotlessly 
clean,  and  seldom  permitted  to  play  out-of-doors 
without  having  his  hands  covered,  a  little  hot- 
house plant  of  a  boy.  Stanley  saw  him  looking 
wistfully  through  the  fence  around  his  home,  and 
said:  "O  Fred,  let  's  go  over  and  talk  to  that 
—that—  Is  it  a  little  boy  or  a  little  girl?  "  It 
seemed  all  the  funnier  because  the  daintily  dressed 
child  had  short  hair  and  trousers,  and  Stanley  has 
always  thought  of  the  latter  much  as  the  Roman 
youths  did  of  the  toga  virilis. 

There  have  been  some  limitations  imposed. 
Stanley  must  be  clean  for  school  and  for  meals, 
and  indeed  the  life  of  greater  freedom  has  so  over- 
whelmed him  with  its  joyous  privileges  that  he 
has  been  very  careful  about  assuming  too  much. 
This  (Saturday)  morning  he  was  allowed  to  go 
out  in  a  pair  of  cotton  trousers,  a  calico  waist, 
and  a  five-cent  straw  hat.  He  was  not  cautioned 
to  take  care  of  his  clothes.  I  expected  that  he 
would  be  ready  for  the  tub  by  noon,  but  thought 
it  would  be  good  for  him  and  no  harder  for  me 
than  to  have  a  warm  and  restless  little  boy  fret- 


An  Adopted  Mother  119 

ting  under  restrictions.     With  good  playmates  I 
felt  him  well  placed  for  the  morning. 

At  ten  he  came  in  exceedingly  pensive.  "It 
would  make  me  vurry,  vurry  happy,"  he  said, 
"if  I  could  have  on  my  overalls  and  sit  in  the 
dust."  I  am  sure  that  after  his  twenty-five-cent 
trousers  had  been  protected  by  quarter-of-a-dollar 
overalls,  he  entered  upon  one  of  the  great  days 
of  his  life.  He  was  as  happy  as  a  sparrow  taking 
a  dust  bath,  or  a  hen  wallowing  in  the  sand  on  the 
sunshiny  side  of  a  bush.  He  had  a  quiet  and 
glorious  day,  free  from  all  irritability  and  un- 
wholesomeness,  and  I  maintain  that  it  was  a  sen- 
sible thing  to  permit  it,  even  if  it  was  hard  on  my 
pride.  He  will  have  enough  wearisome  years  in 
which  to  keep  up  appearances  and  live  the  con- 
ventional life,  and  he  will  probably  need,  in  the 
long  run,  all  the  sturdy  vitality  which  he  is  now 
storing  up. 

September  2Qth,  1902. — If  there  was  one  matter 
in  which  I  prided  myself  that  I  had  been  especially 
successful,  it  was  in  having  Stanley  realize  that 
dumb  brutes  had  feelings  and  rights  of  their  own 
which  he  was  bound  to  respect.  I  have  been 
greatly  surprised  by  my  apparent  success,  almost 
overwhelmed  at  times,  as  when  he  proceeded  to 
justify  the  skunks  in  their  method  of  self-defence. 

But  I  fear  my  work  along  this  line  is  not 
ended.  At  dusk  my  door-bell  rang  violently  and 


120  Note-Book  of 

repeatedly,  and  I  answered  it,  only  to  find  Stanley 
there  propped  up  with  an  improvised  crutch  and 
a  crude  cane.  "You  will  have  to  help  me  this 
time,"  he  said.  "I  am  so  lame.  Harry's  little 
calfie  kicked  me." 

"And  what  were  you  doing  to  him?" 
"Nuffing.     We  were  n't  hurting  him,  anyway. 
We  was  just  behind  him  and  had  hold  of  his  tail, 
kind  of  wobbling  it  around,  and  he  kicked.    .    .    . 
But  we  had  a  DANDY  time." 

September  joth,  1902. — When  we  decided  to 
adopt  a  child  I  knew  that  we  must  not  expect 
him  to  be  brilliant.  I  know  some  educators  hold 
that  too  much  stress  has  been  laid  upon  the  power 
of  heredity  in  this  regard  and  too  little  upon  the 
power  of  home  influence  and  environment.  I 
know,  too,  that  an  adopted  daughter  of  a  Western 
professor,  a  child  of  only  ordinary  promise  when 
taken,  developed  into  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
intellect,  and  that  it  was  ascribed  to  tactful  and 
scientific  training.  But  one  cannot  generalize 
from  a  single  instance,  and  Stanley  is  a  child  of 
the  laboring  class.  I  wish  that  I  knew  more  of 
his  antecedents.  They  are  thoroughly  respect- 
able, but  how  did  he  get  this  intense  respect  for 
education  and  this  constant  realization  that  knowl- 
edge is  power? 

When  he  first  came  he  would  start  off  to  school 
each  morning,  peeping  through  the  openings  of 


An  Adopted  Mother  121 

the  fence  to  call  back:  "I  am  going  to  school, 
Mother.  Going  to  learn  my  lessons.  Going  to 
study  hard.  Going  to  be  a  good  boy.  Going  to 
do  everyfing  just  right." 

"I  have  found  out,"  he  announced  gravely  a 
little  later,  "that  the  more  you  study  the  more 
you  learn." 

He  has  often  said:  "Now  if  I  did  n't  know 
that,  I  could  n't  do  this."  And  he  likes  to  have 
me  tell  him  practical  ways  in  which  book-learning 
helps.  There  have  been  several  cases  of  small- 
pox in  the  house  across  from  ours  this  year,  and 
it  has  impressed  him  greatly  to  hear  that  if  a  man 
who  could  not  read  should  come  along  selling 
things,  he  might  go  right  up  to  the  door  and 
catch  the  disease,  all  because  he  could  not  read 
the  quarantine  card  and  tell  what  s-m-a-1-l-p-o-x 
spelled.  I  am  sure  that  he  got  the  right  idea 
from  our  conversation,  although  I  afterward  heard 
him  tell  a  thick-headed  playmate  that  he  'd  better 
study  his  spelling  more,  "  'cause  he  'd  be  lobble 
to  have  the  smallpox  if  he  did  n't." 

Spelling  is  always  a  matter  of  the  greatest  inter- 
est, and  he  likes  to  have  me  pronounce  words  for 
him.  Yesterday  when  I  was  doing  this,  I  said : 
"Spell 'see.'" 

"What  kind  of  see,  Mother?  " 

"Like 'I  see  a  cat.'" 

He  spelled  it.  "Now,  Mother,"  he  added,  "how 
do  you  spell  '  see  '  like  '  I  see  a  dog  '  ?  " 


122  Note-Book  of 

Sometimes  he  tries  to  emulate  the  older  boys 
by  spelling  out  the  names  of  articles  desired. 
This  has  its  inconveniences.  For  example,  I 
have  to  make  further  inquiries  when  he  says: 
"Please  give  me  a  p-j-h-r-x. " 

There  are  compensating  advantages  to  this  en- 
thusiasm for  spelling.  To-night,  for  example, 
while  I  am  writing  this,  I  can  hear  him  spelling 
himself  to  sleep.  "I  guess  I  will  spell  heifer," 
he  says.  "Heifer.  F-o-r-p,  heifer.  That  is 
right.  .  .  .  Now  spell  heifer.  F-o-r-p,  heifer. 
That  is  right." 

Sometimes,  when  there  is  great  need  of  a  quiet 
diversion,  Stanley  is  the  teacher  and  I  am  the 
pupil,  always  with  the  understanding  that  I  may 
be  allowed  to  go  on  with  my  sewing  or  household 
tasks.  Then  we  have  great  fun,  for  after  a  while 
the  pupil  becomes  confused  and  insists  that 
h-o-r-s-e  spells  "sheep,"  "goat,"  or  the  name 
of  some  other  quadruped.  Stanley  has  the  dra- 
matic instinct,  and  it  is  the  sweetest  kind  of 
commentary  on  the  excellence  and  tact  of  his 
teacher  when  he  gently  and  patiently  insists  on 
my  learning  the  right  way.  Knowing  her  as  well 
as  I  do,  I  can  recognize  her  inflections  and 
gestures  reproduced  exactly.  Sometimes  he  is 
ambitious  to  teach  me  words  which  he  himself 
has  never  learned.  Then  he  asks  me  in  a  whis- 
per how  they  are  spelled,  gets  his  information, 
and  pronounces  them  to  me  in  a  tone  of  the 


An  Adopted  Mother  123 

greatest  assurance.  If  a  word  is  long  he  some- 
times has  to  ask  a  second  time  in  a  whisper  to 
make  sure  that  I  gave  it  aright  when  I  spoke 
aloud.  The  dual  role  does  not  trouble  him  in  the 
least. 

Few  people  who  have  not  tried  it  realize  how 
much  comfort  there  is  in  living  with  a  normal 
child.  These  little  ' '  visits, ' '  as  Stanley  calls  them, 
are  as  much  fun  for  me  as  for  him,  although  in  a 
somewhat  different  way,  and  they  give  me  a  good 
insight  into  his  difficulties,  educational  and  other- 
wise. Sometimes  he  is  rather  patronizing,  but  in 
such  a  gentle  way  that  I  do  not  mind.  For  in- 
stance, I  spoke  of  his  bathing  in  the  tub,  and  was 
checked  with:  "That  is  n't  bayving  when  you 
are  in  the  tub — that  is  baffing.  It  's  bayving 
when  you  are  in  the  Bay."  Then,  turning  to 
Ernest,  he  said  apologetically:  "Mother  does  n't 
understand  that,  you  know." 

And  then  there  are  many  little  opportunities  to 
give  information  which  will  interest  him  and  go 
to  make  general  culture.  The  story  of  the  boy 
Watts  and  the  tea-kettle,  told  one  night  when  I 
was  getting  dinner,  has  fascinated  him  greatly. 
He  has  spoken  of  it  often  since,  following  out  the 
idea  which  I  suggested  then,  of  the  many  ways 
in  which  Watts's  discovery  of  the  power  of  steam 
affects  our  daily  life. 

"We  plant  the  wheatfield,  but  we  do  not  have 
to  grow  the  wheat,"  and  the  planting  of  this  sort 


1 24  Note-Book  of 

of  wheat  is  a  constant  delight,  the  returns  are  so 
generous  and  well  worth  while.  It  is  not  enough 
to  teach  a  child  to  do  things.  He  must  be  taught 
to  think  and  enjoy  thinking,  if  he  is  to  amount  to 
much.  Thinking  is,  after  all,  largely  a  matter  of 
habit,  and  if  the  habit  is  formed  early  enough  in 
life,  it  is  likely  to  persist. 

October  jrd,  1902. — Poor  Stanley  is  suffering 
the  fate  of  most  very  youthful  lovers,  in  finding 
himself  the  object  of  too  much  interest  and  criti- 
cism from  his  companions.  Anita's  plump  and 
rosy  cheeks  have  always  been  attractive  to  him, 
and  he  has  been  allowed  to  kiss  her  as  often  as  he 
wished  without  thinking  it  at  all  a  matter  of  re- 
mark. But  the  impulse  to  kiss  her  at  school  must 
have  overwhelmed  him,  for  to-night  we  had  a  con- 
versation on  the  subject.  " Mother,"  said  he, 
"did  you  ever  kiss  a  girl?  " 

"Yes,  many  times." 

"'Course,  though,  you  are  a  lady!  When  I 
kissed  Anita  the  boys  made  fun  of  me.  .  .  . 
Father,  did  you  ever  kiss  girls?  " 

Ernest  said — but  I  think  his  reply  was  not  in- 
tended for  record. 

October  6th,  1902. — Stanley's  love  for  natural 
history,  which  I  have  so  carefully  fostered,  is 
not  altogether  without  its  drawbacks.  I  had  a 
wearisome  afternoon  in  the  rain  to-day,  and 


An  Adopted  Mother  125 

left  Nettie  to  receive  the  boy  on  his  return  from 
school  and  see  that  he  was  made  dry  and  happy. 
When  my  errands  were  all  done  and  I  neared 
home,  I  fear  that  I  was  too  tired  to  be  quite  reason- 
able. Entering  by  the  back  way  to  avoid  setting 
the  front  part  of  the  house  afloat,  I  found  Nettie 
smiling  over  her  work.  Stanley  and  a  playmate 
were  in  the  sitting-room. 

Nettie  told  me  what  had  amused  her.  When 
he  reached  home  he  said  he  had  found  some 
angleworms  and  picked  them  up.  "I  fought  I 
might  need  them  when  I  am  a  big  boy  and  go 
fishing,"  he  explained.  She  was  politely  inter- 
ested, and  went  on  changing  his  clothes  for  dry 
ones.  That  done,  she  held  his  umbrella  up  to 
open  and  dry  it,  when  she  felt  a  score  or  so  of 
wriggling  earthworms  descending  on  her  head  and 
shoulders.  He  had  used  the  umbrella  for  a  re- 
pository. 

"Where  are  the  worms  now?  "  I  asked. 

"I  had  him  pick  them  up  and  put  them  into  a 
can,"  she  replied.  "I  thought  they  could  be 
kept  in  a  corner  of  the  porch,  so  he  could  take 
them  out  to  the  garden  when  the  rain  stops." 

Forgetting  how  inexperienced  she  was,  and 
feeling  only  amused  over  the  occurrence,  I  went 
to  the  sitting-room  door.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  stood  the  can  with  a  few  worms  remaining 
in  it.  The  rest  were  sprawling  dismally  around 
on  the  rug  in  search  of  a  burrowing-place,  while 


i26  Note-Book  of 

Stanley's  friend  ran  a  train  of  toy  cars  in  one 
corner  and  Stanley  was  hunting  through  the 
volumes  of  my  new  thirty-dollar  Natural  Histories 
to  find  a  picture  of  snakes  that  he  wanted  to  show 
him.  Actually  turning  those  precious  pages  with 
hands  which  had  recently  been  full  of  worms ! 

Now  I  do  not  dislike  worms,  but  they  have 
their  place.  I  do  not  like  them  in  hymns,  where 
people  are  supposed  to  sing,  "Did  He  devote  that 
sacred  head  for  such  a  worm  as  I?  "  and  I  do  not 
like  them  on  sitting-room  rugs.  Consequently  I 
fear  there  was  more  quickness  than  kindness  in 
the  way  I  rescued  my  books  and  gathered  up  the 
worms  to  throw  them  out-of-doors.  Stanley  was 
much  grieved,  as  I  now  think  he  had  a  right  to 
be,  for  he  had  blundered  ignorantly,  and  I  was 
still  upset  and  dishevelled  when  Ernest  came  to 
dinner.  There  had  been  no  scene,  no  scolding, 
yet  the  domestic  atmosphere  was  wrong  and  it  was 
distinctly  my  fault. 

I  had  not  overcome  my  annoyance  when  I  put 
Stanley  to  bed,  but  when  he  suddenly  squatted 
down  "to  show  how  robins  hop  around  in  the 
rain,"  and  went  about  the  room  in  that  fashion, 
such  a  funny  little  figure  in  his  white  pajamas 
with  the  extra  long  legs  trailing  after  him,  I  did 
have  the  grace  to  realize  that  he  is  hardly  more 
than  a  baby,  and  that  it  is  altogether  unworthy 
of  an  adult  to  lose  patience  with  such  a  little  one 
for  lack  of  judgment.  Still,  I  should  have  more 


An  Adopted  Mother  127 

self-respect  if  I  had  regained  my  serenity  without 
this  lesson. 

Presumably  Stanley  did  not  carry  his  experi- 
ments with  worms  quite  so  far  as  did  one  of  his 
playmates.  Charley  is  ill,  and  Stanley  said :  "He 
had  a  handful  of  angleworms  and  put  'em  in  his 
mouf,  and  that  made  him  sick.  Putting  angle- 
worms to  your  mouf  is  lobble  [liable]  to  make 
you  sick.  If  I  should  put  an  angleworm  to  my 
mouf  I  'd  prob'ly  have  the  measles." 

The  measles  are  prevalent  just  now,  and  there 
is  much  talk  of  contagion.  This  has  evidently 
got  mixed  with  a  recent  Sunday-school  lesson,  for 
while  we  were  discussing  the  disease  lately  Stanley 
remarked:  "I  fink  I  never,  never,  never  ought  to 
go  in  a  s'loon  where  they  drink  whiskey  and  beer, 
'cause  I  might  catch  it  too." 

And  this  reminds  me  to  set  down  another  recent 
mistake  of  his,  when  he  confused  the  names  and 
purposes  of  the  saloon  and  the  drug  store  by  call- 
ing the  latter  a  ' '  drunk  store. ' '  I  fancy  he  hinted 
at  a  truth,  however,  when  one  remembers  how 
some  drug  stores  are  patronized  in  villages  by 
people  who  dislike  to  be  seen  entering  a  saloon. 

October  8th,  1902. — How  easy  it  is  to  find  cause 
for  happiness  when  we  are  in  the  right  mood ! 
Often  the  thought  of  putting  on  his  own  shoes 
and  stockings  quite  overwhelms  Stanley,  but  this 
morning,  when  he  was  full  of  joyful  anticipations, 


128  Note-Book  of 

he  put  them  all  on  with  celerity  and  said:  "Just 
s'posing  I  was  a  centipede  and  had  to  get  all  my 
stockings  on  before  breakfast ! ' ' 

October  nth,  1902. — Alas  for  the  little  boy  who 
could  not  withstand  the  seductions  of  the  cow 
pasture !  He  was  playing  peacefully  in  the  yard 
after  school  when  some  forbidden  companions 
came  along  and  asked  him  to  go  with  them  to  the 
pasture.  Nobody  was  there  to  help  him  resist 
temptation  and  he  went.  Twilight  came  and 
darkness,  with  still  no  boy.  Ernest  and  I  had 
nearly  finished  our  dinner  when  the  door-bell  rang 
violently.  I  opened  the  door  and  saw  him  half 
hidden  off  to  one  side,  waiting  for  me  to  find  him. 
I  paused  for  him  to  take  the  initiative,  and  at  last 
he  stepped  forward  with  what  was  intended  to  be 
an  exceedingly  jaunty  air,  saying:  "What  did 
you  want  me  for?  " 

"I  thought  you  wished  to  come  in.  Go  to 
wash  before  you  come  to  the  table." 

Then  came  floods  of  tears  and  agonies  of  re- 
pentance, although  punishment  had  not  been 
mentioned.  Indeed  I  had  suspected  that  the 
fatigue,  hunger,  and  awesome  darkness  had  been 
retribution  enough.  It  took  all  the  resolution  I 
possessed  to  keep  me  from  turning  consoler  and 
spoiling  the  natural  process  by  which  many  sins 
bring  about  their  own  punishment.  When  he 
was  washed  and  fed  and  going  to  bed,  he  said: 


An  Adopted  Mother  129 

''Mother,  I  don't  fink  you  understand.  I  truly 
forgot  about  not  going  with  those  boys.  I  fink 
it  's  because  I  am  such  a  little  boy.  Whose  fault 
was  it?  'Cause  they  asked  me,  you  know.  I  tell 
you  what ;  you  'member  me  every  little  while  not 
to  play  with  them.  I  am  very  sure  that  the 
trouble  is  because  I  am  too  little." 

We  talked  it  over,  of  course.  There  was  no 
dodging  the  issue,  but  I  could  not  be  severe.  I 
spoke  only  of  my  anxiety  when  one  of  the  other 
boys  told  me  where  he  had  gone,  and  he  told  me 
what  a  charming  time  they  had  in  the  pasture. 
Evidently  his  conscience  had  not  begun  to  trouble 
until  they  started  homeward.  Then  "the  boys 
was  mean  and  went  just  as  slow  as  they  could, 
and  they  might  just  as  well  have  made  the  cows 
run. 

"When  I  grow  up,  you  dear,  dear,  dear,  dear 
Mother,"  he  said,  "I  '11  buy  a  cow,  not  a  hooked 
one,  and  you  can  go  to  pasture  with  me.  Every 
night.  And  you  can  catch  frogs  in  the  crick 
there.  I  fink  it  would  be  nicer  to  have  a  cow 
what  gives  milk,  so  I  'd  better  get  one  with  a  calf. 
How  long  is  a  calf  if  you  count  his  tail?  What 
makes  cows  be  ugly?  I  b'leeve  I  know.  I  b'leeve 
they  don't  like  people  and  they  are  afraid  of  them, 
and  when  they  see  you  coming  they  just  fink  you 
are  a  great  big  dreadful  FING,  and  then  they  hook 
you." 

Charming  prospect  in  store  for  a  woman  who 


Note-Book  of 


cannot  abide  cows.  I  should  be  delighted  to 
catch  frogs,  but  when  a  cow  waggles  her  head  at 
me  with  that  discomfiting  bovine  stare  of  hers, 
my  courage  oozes  out  at  my  finger-tips.  It  is 
something  I  cannot  reason  about  —  successfully. 
When  I  am  alone  I  have  often  said:  ''You  are 
very  foolish,  Eleanor  Davids.  Why  can  you  not 
fear  snakes,  or  even  mice,  so  as  to  be  at  least  con- 
ventionally cowardly?"  But  it  does  no  good. 
The  panic  returns  at  my  first  encounter  with  a 
leisurely  Bossie.  Cows  are  so  dreadfully  rectangu- 
lar and  self-possessed  ! 

I  wonder  if  I  shall  parallel  the  experience  of  my 
delightful  friend,  Mrs.  Fowler?  She  is  one  of 
those  people  who  are  born  with  an  antipathy  to 
cats.  As  a  child  she  suffered  fearfully  from  the 
mere  presence  of  a  cat  in  the  room.  A  year  ago 
her  children  set  their  young  affections  on  a  stray 
kitten,  and  were  at  last  permitted  to  adopt  her  on 
condition  she  should  be  kept  in  the  barn. 

After  a  while  the  cat  hung  around  the  back 
door.  One  day  she  slipped  through.  Finally 
she  was  sick  and  was  brought  in  to  be  doctored. 
Some  weeks  later  she  presented  the  family  with 
a  pair  of  kittens.  As  there  were  three  children, 
there  seemed  to  be  a  providential  coincidence 
between  their  number  and  that  of  the  cats.  Mrs. 
Fowler  said  that  they  might  keep  one  of  the  three. 
They  thought  it  best  to  wait  a  bit  before  deciding 
which  to  sacrifice.  Meanwhile  the  trio  strolled 


An  Adopted  Mother  131 

more  and  more  frequently  into  the  house,  the 
kittens  slowly  but  surely  developing  into  cat- 
hood. 

One  day  I  called  upon  Mrs.  Fowler,  to  find  her 
sewing  in  the  sitting-room  and  three  of  the  chairs 
around  her  pre-empted  by  cats.  There  was  not 
a  child  in  sight  to  justify  this  state  of  things.  I 
remember  that  somewhere  in  his  Essay  on  Educa- 
tion, Spencer  speaks  of  parenthood  as  the  greatest 
education  in  the  world,  the  most  rigorous  and 
thorough,  and  calls  it  a  most  wonderful  provision 
of  nature  that  our  strongest  instincts  lead  us  to 
our  most  rigorous  discipline.  Is  it  possible  that 
in  my  case  this  will  include  cows? 

October  14-th,  1902. — Such  a  funny  illustration 
of  the  familiar  saying  "that  a  little  learning  is  a 
dangerous  thing."  Stanley  came  home  from 
school  quite  decided  that  he  would  not  go  any 
more.  He  has  no  distaste  for  it,  and  must,  I 
think,  have  been  unduly  elated  over  some  en- 
couraging remark  of  his  teacher's.  "No,  truly, 
Mother,"  he  said,  "I  don't  fink  I  need  to  go  to 
school  any  more.  You  know  I  can  read  very  well 
now,  and  I  can  write,  too." 

"There  are  still  some  words  that  you  cannot 
write,"  I  said.  "You  might  better  go  a  while 
longer.  Can  you  write  ornithorhynchus?  " 

"No.  I  can't  write  that.  I  guess  p'r'aps  I  'd 
better  go  after  all." 


132  Note-Book  of 

October  igtk,  1902. — To  be  small  and  wiggle- 
some  and  yet  go  to  church!  Well  I  remember 
how  it  feels.  First  there  is  the  pleasing  excite- 
ment of  having  on  one's  best  clothes,  a  happiness 
somewhat  marred  by  the  inevitable  maternal  last 
look  at  one's  ears  and  ringers.  Then  the  digni- 
fied walk  to  church  between  father  and  mother, 
the  dignity  not  becoming  oppressive  until  one 
reaches  what  might  be  called  the  last  quarter. 
Next  the  entering  church  and  getting  settled  in 
the  pew,  discovering  who  are  seated  in  the  imme- 
diate vicinity,  wondering  how  the  minister  keeps 
so  clean,  and  unfolding  and  examining  one's  extra 
Sunday  handkerchief  to  make  sure  that  the  penny 
for  the  offertory  is  still  safely  below  it  in  the 
pocket.  After  that  comes  the  long  period  of  try- 
ing to  be  good. 

Dear  me!  When  I  think  of  that,  I  do  not 
want  to  be  a  child  again.  And  yet,  my  boy  must 
attend  church  each  Sunday  morning  with  us. 
This  is  so  much  a  matter  of  course  that  it  never 
occurs  to  him  to  protest,  and  indeed  I  do  not 
think  he  considers  it  an  ordeal.  He  is  a  great 
friend  and  admirer  of  our  young  minister,  and 
also  on  most  comfortable  terms  with  the  singers, 
so  he  has  a  personal  interest  in  those  who  lead  in 
the  service.  He  knows  that  the  minister  will  be 
disappointed  if  Stanley  is  not  there,  and  he  looks 
forward  to  a  time  when  he  shall  be  permitted  to 
sing  with  the  boy  choir. 


An  Adopted  Mother  133 

I  have  never  expected  him  to  understand  the 
sermon,  but  I  have  given  him  chances  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  minister,  and  he  seems  to 
feel  that  loyal  friendship  demands  a  certain  de- 
gree of  attention.  The  results  are  sometimes 
peculiar.  For  instance,  when  Mr.  Phillips  said, 
"Woe!  woe!  woe!"  Stanley  asked  why  he  was 
calling  "Whoa!"  Another  time,  when  he  had 
spoken  of  an  eagle  screaming  as  it  flew  upward 
(this  in  some  illustrative  incident)  a  thoughtless 
person  in  the  near  neighborhood  began  to  use 
a  squeaky  pump.  "There  is  that  eagle  now," 
said  Stanley.  "Mother,  don't  you  hear  it 
scream  ? ' ' 

I  have  always  found  the  place  in  a  hymn-book 
and  handed  it  to  Stanley  during  the  singing,  he 
humming  softly  along  with  the  congregation  and 
so  feeling  that  he  is  really  a  participant  in  the 
service.  It  was  a  distinct  step  in  advance  when 
he  began  to  find  his  own  place,  and  now  he  first 
hunts  the  correct  number  for  me  in  one  book  and 
then  for  himself  in  another.  I  am  teaching  him 
the  words  of  a  few  of  our  standard  hymns  at 
home,  having  purchased  a  church  hymnal  for  the 
purpose,  but  he  thought  he  discovered  a  comfort- 
able short  cut  to  singing  lately  when,  the  clergy- 
man announcing  "We  will  sing  number  one 
hundred,"  he  followed  the  familiar  tune  with 
words  and  whispered  triumphantly  to  me  at  the 
close:  "Mother,  I  did  just  what  Mr.  Phillips  said. 


134  Note-Book  of 

I  sang  'One  hundred,  one  hundred,  one  hundred, 
one  hundred  '  all  the  time." 

October  22nd,  1902. — It  is  certainly  humiliating 
for  people  with  immortal  souls  to  find  their  amia- 
bility at  all  dependent  upon  their  temperature  or 
the  condition  of  their  stomachs,  and  yet  if  we  are 
honest  with  ourselves  we  have  to  admit  a  close 
relation  between  our  physical  condition  and  our 
dispositions.  Then  why  should  we  not  recognize 
it  in  dealing  with  children?  It  was  Beecher  who 
said  that  two  thirds  of  Christianity  was  a  Christian 
temper,  and  that  two  thirds  of  a  Christian  temper 
was  a  good  digestion.  How  then  about  the  moral 
accountability  of  one  who  permits  children  to  up- 
set all  normal  digestion  and  lay  the  foundation 
of  future  ills  by  eating  whatever  and  whenever 
they  wish? 

Confirmed  dyspeptics,  whose  ills  are  the  matter 
of  friendly  inquiry  and  whose  changes  of  medicine 
furnish  topics  of  conversation,  Emerson  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding,  receive  all  the  sym- 
pathy which  they  deserve.  In  fact  they  often  re- 
ceive more,  because  they  so  frequently  sin  against 
knowledge  and  succumb  to  the  temptation  of  a 
holiday  repast  or  an  especially  toothsome  dish. 
The  child  who  is  cross  for  like  cause  is  likely  to 
have  a  spanking  instead  of  sympathy. 

Thanks  to  the  admonitions  of  various  doctors 
and  trained  nurses,  and  the  more  or  less  accurate 


An  Adopted  Mother  135 

statements  made  by  advertisers  of  cereals,  there 
is  an  increasing  number  of  parents  who  study  the 
dietetic  needs  of  children  and  place  the  right  food 
before  them,  but  I  wonder  if  we  do  not  owe  some- 
thing more  to  our  boys  and  girls  in  the  way  of 
teaching  them  to  think  about  such  things.  Every 
particle  of  matter  which  is  to  renew  and  add  to 
the  body  must  be  taken  into  the  stomach,  and 
there  is  a  time  coming  when  these  little  people 
will  be  big  people  and  decide  for  themselves.  It 
strikes  me  that  it  is  well  to  have  children  under- 
stand this,  and  that  if  they  wish  to  be  strong  and 
capable  men  and  women  they  must  take  in  the 
right  material. 

Stanley  came  to  us,  a  model  in  the  way  of  eat- 
ing what  was  set  before  him,  and  my  only  virtue 
lies  in  having  kept  him  up  to  the  School  standard. 
With  new  temptations,  and  with  adults  eating  in 
his  presence  and  frequently  taking  what  it  was 
not  best  for  him  to  have,  it  would  have  required 
only  about  three  days  in  which  to  undo  all  that 
had  been  accomplished  in  this  line.  However,  I 
have  managed  to  keep  him  perfectly  happy  on 
what  he  calls  "little  boy  food,"  giving  him  as 
much  as  possible  what  we  have,  but  rigorously 
excluding  some  dishes.  I  do  not  know  quite  how 
it  has  been  done,  and  am  really  surprised  at  my 
success. 

We  attended  field  sports  recently,  and  Stanley 
was  for  a  whole  afternoon  beside  a  boy  who  con- 


136  Note-Book  of 

stantly  munched  cookies,  yet  he  did  not  ask  for  a 
taste,  and  was  perfectly  satisfied  when  I  declined 
the  big  one  which  was  offered  to  him.  I  know 
that  it  is  much  easier  for  him  to  be  sensible  be- 
cause he  does  not  see  other  members  of  the  family 
gormandizing,  but  I  fancy  that  the  greatest  help  is 
a  normal  digestion  and  simple,  unspoiled  tastes. 

Upon  a  few  things  I  insist.  He  must  not  re- 
fuse to  eat  any  kind  of  food  which  is  given  to 
him,  although  if  I  know  that  he  dislikes  it  I  am 
careful  to  give  him  a  smaller  portion.  These  no- 
tions and  preferences  are  soon  forgotten  if  not 
humored,  whereas  if  they  were,  I  should  soon 
have  a  capricious  little  autocrat  of  the  breakfast 
table  saying,  "I  will  eat  this,"  and  "I  will  not 
eat  that."  It  sounds  like  fiction,  and  Sunday- 
school  fiction  at  that,  when  I  say,  that  if  offered 
a  choice  between  two  dainties  for  dessert,  he 
almost  invariably  asks:  "Which  will  make  me  the 
stronger? "  and  takes  it.  But  this  is  fact,  and  he 
is  not  conscious  of  doing  anything  remarkable  or 
particularly  virtuous  in  so  deciding. 

Two  stories  have  had  a  very  bracing  effect  on 
him.  One  is  of  my  struggles  to  eat  certain  things 
when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  how  my  mother  made 
me  eat  those  which  I  did  not  like  before  tasting 
the  others.  This  also  includes  a  sequel  of  how 
fortunate  this  training  was  for  me  when  I  grew 
up  and  went  away  to  live  in  a  boarding-house. 
The  other  story  is  of  a  cousin  of  mine,  who  was 


An  Adopted  Mother  137 

not  so  strong  as  her  brothers  and  sisters  and 
thought  she  ought  to  be  favored  on  that  account. 
She  pouted  and  was  cross  because  her  piece  of  pie 
was  not  so  large  as  that  of  the  other  children,  and 
her  mother  sent  her  away  from  the  table  without 
any  pie  at  all.  I  have  never  attempted  to  make 
a  personal  application  in  telling  these,  but  it  may 
be  that  Stanley  draws  his  own  conclusions.  The 
latter  tale  seems  to  strike  him  as  quite  tragic. 

There  is  also  a  third  story,  which  I  had  forgotten 
for  the  moment.  It  is  of  the  battle-ship  Oregon 
and  the  wonderful  work  that  she  was  able  to  do 
after  her  long  trip  around  the  Horn,  all  because 
her  engines  were  fed  the  right  kind  of  coal. 

I  feel  sure,  too,  that  our  many  little  talks  on 
anatomy  and  physiology  have  given  Stanley  an 
added  respect  for  the  human  body  and  its  needs. 
They  have  come  about  quite  incidentally,  and  he 
seems  to  find  them  of  absorbing  interest.  He 
calls  most  frequently  for  the  story  of  digestion, 
but  that  may  be  because  it  is  the  longest.  It 
usually  ends  with  his  listening  to  the  working  of 
my  "pump"  sending  the  blood  out  into  its 
"pipes,"  and  then  tracing  on  his  clear  skin  the 
course  of  his  own  blood-vessels,  in  which  the 
nourishment  derived  from  his  food  is  carried 
around  to  muscles,  bones,  skin,  etc.,  and  all  are 
given  a  chance  to  take  some  of  the  strength  out 
for  themselves.  This  reminds  me  of  his  plaintive 
plea  when  I  was  asking  him  to  wash  his  hands 


138  Note-Book  of 

more  thoroughly.  "Why,  Mother,  that  won't 
come  off,"  said  he.  "That  is  just  some  of  my 
pipes  showing  froo  !  "  And  he  was  right,  as  a 
brighter  light  proved. 

I  wish  I  could  feel  as  sure  of  my  success  in  all 
details  as  I  am  in  this  particular  one  of  regulating 
Stanley's  eating,  and,  what  is  even  more  import- 
ant, teaching  him  to  regulate  it  willingly  and 
gladly.  But  then,  if  he  were  as  good  as  that  in 
all  respects,  he  would  be  an  angel  instead  of  a 
healthy  human  boy  —  and  I?  I  would  probably 
be  writing  magazine  articles  on  "How  to  Bring  up 
Children,"  growing  more  and  more  self-satisfied 
daily,  and  winning  a  full  measure  of  that  cordial 
dislike  which  is  the  portion  of  paragons.  It  is 
undoubtedly  a  good  deal  better  for  me  to  have 
my  frequent  disheartenments  and  wonderings  as 
to  whether  I  have  done  the  right  thing,  together 
with  an  occasional  conviction  that  I  have  not. 


October  24th>  1902.  —  One  of  the  sweetest  re- 
wards of  trying  to  teach  a  child  the  better  way, 
instead  of  sternly  repressing  and  arbitrarily  pun- 
ishing him,  comes  when  he  begins  to  take  the  reins 
of  government  into  his  own  hands  and  rule  him- 
self for  good.  I  tasted  this  sweetness  to-day. 

Stanley  returned  from  school  in  a  pouring  rain, 
and,  owing  to  an  unfortunate  tumble,  his  rubber 
boots  were  considerably  wetter  inside  than  out. 
As  a  consequence  he  could  not  go  at  once  to 


An  Adopted  Mother  139 

Harry's,  as  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  doing.  The 
hard,  ugly  look  which  I  have  learned  to  dread 
came  into  his  eyes  and  he  was  on  the  verge  of  an 
explosion,  when  suddenly  he  gripped  the  edges 
of  his  chair  and  sat  very  still.  I  told  him  that 
when  we  got  the  dry  shoes  and  stockings  on,  he 
might  watch  for  a  chance,  and  if  it  stopped  rain- 
ing at  all  he  could  go  to  play  in  the  house.  He 
gripped  the  chair  more  tightly  for  a  minute  and 
then  said — but  I  will  tell  the  story  as  he  did  a 
little  later. 

"I  fought  my  temper  that  time,  did  n't  I?" 
said  he.  "Did  n't  say  anyfing  inside  of  me,  but 
just  talked  right  out  loud  and  said:  'I  will  not  go 
out  at  all  this  afternoon  or  play  with  any  one. 
Not  in  any  shoes.  If  anybody  comes  to  play, 
you  send  them  home.  I  fink  that  will  be  better. 
I  was  bad  for  a  little  while,  you  know,  and  that 
will  just  pay  me." 

October  2jth,  1902. — A  few  years  ago  I  heard 
of  an  inland  home  where  both  of  the  sons  had  run 
away  to  sea,  and  the  broken-hearted  mother  was 
lamenting  the  fact  to  her  minister.  "I  do  not 
see  how  it  ever  happened,"  she  said.  "None  of 
our  people  were  seafaring  folks,  and  we  live  so 
far  from  the  water."  For  answer  the  wise  old 
minister  pointed  to  the  only  picture  of  importance 
in  the  room,  a  fine  one  of  a  ship  at  sea. 

Whether  this  story  is  literally  true  or  true  in  a 


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higher  sense  only,  it  points  a  moral.  I  have  been 
watching  the  effect  on  Stanley  of  our  own  pictures. 
They  are  not  all  that  I  could  wish.  Some  are 
kept  for  associations  only,  but  there  is  nothing 
which  calls  for  banishment.  The  Madonnas  make 
him  tenderly  reverent,  Sargent's  Prophets  do  not 
interest  him  at  all,  Guido  Reni's  Dawn  interests 
him  mildly,  but  the  Raphael  cartoons  hold  him 
enthralled. 

The  strong  onward  sweep  and  rush  of  Guido's 
picture  does  not  hold  the  same  restful  fascination 
for  him  which  it  has  for  tired  adults.  If  it 
were  expedient  to  awaken  him  early  enough 
to  see  a  really  fine  sunrise,  so  that  it  could 
mean  more  to  him,  he  would  soon  appreciate  the 
picture. 

The  Miraculous  Draught  of  Fishes  is  his  favorite 
among  the  cartoons.  When  he  is  particularly 
tired  he  lies  on  the  floor  looking  up  at  it,  and 
begs  me  to  tell  him  the  story  over  and  over  and 
over  again,  I  often  reading  and  interpreting  it  to 
him  from  his  own  little  Testament. 

The  Death  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira  is  another 
which  enthralls  him.  His  usual  comment  at  the 
close  of  this  very  impressive  and  tragic  recital  is  : 
"Well,  they  had  n't  ought  to  have  told  lies!" 
And  his  English  goes  uncorrected.  I  tell  the 
story  when  it  is  called  for,  but  admit  that  I  do 
not  enjoy  the  narration.  Once  in  a  while  I  find 
him  standing  before  this  cartoon  in  deep  thought. 


An  Adopted  Mother  141 

Usually  this  unnatural  meditation  is  followed  by 
a  confession  of  some  shortcoming. 

It  was  this  same  picture,  together  with  its 
equally  strong  and  awful  companion,  Elymas 
Struck  with  Blindness,  and  The  Beautiful  Gate  of 
the  Temple,  with  its  repulsive  figure  of  the  man 
born  lame,  which  confronted  a  certain  young  can- 
vasser a  few  years  since.  She  was  taking  orders 
for  photographs,  colored  and  mounted  on  glass, 
with  celluloid  frames  of  china  pink,  mustard  yel- 
low, and  peacock  blue.  Naturally  she  was  inter- 
ested in  art,  and  she  wished  to  be  agreeable. 
"What  lots  of  pretty  pictures  you  have,"  she 
said,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  Ananias  in  his  death 
agonies. 

What  I  am  thinking  is  this,  that  whereas  many 
parents  give  their  girls  a  piece  of  silver  on  each 
birthday,  in  order  that  they  may  gradually  accu- 
mulate something  toward  housekeeping,  I  would 
like  to  give  my  boy  a  really  fine  photograph  of 
some  famous  and  helpful  picture,  suitably  framed. 
I  shall  begin  doing  it  very  soon,  and  by  the  time 
he  goes  to  college  or  has  to  fit  up  bachelor  apart- 
ments away  from  home,  he  can  hang  his  walls 
with  excellent  pictures,  all  of  which  shall  have 
old,  tender,  and  helpful  associations  for  him.  I 
should  like  to  have  a  couple  of  fine  bronzes  in  the 
collection,  too,  all  things  which  he  could  under- 
stand as  a  boy,  but  which  he  would  not  outgrow 
as  a  man. 


i42  Note-Book  of 

October 3 ist,  1902. — Stanley  came  home  quite 
drenched  to-day,  although  he  had  carried  his  um- 
brella to  and  from  school.  The  reason  was  that 
he  had  lent  it  to  two  little  girls  who  had  none, 
as  far  as  their  paths  coincided.  "You  know, 
Mother,"  he  said,  "boys  ought  to  always  take 
care  of  girls.  And  I  did  n't  get  very  wet  any- 
way, 'cause  I  scooted  so." 

Opinions  may  have  differed  as  to  the  wetness, 
but  we  were  unanimous  as  to  boys'  obligation  to 
care  for  girls.  And  Stanley  does  care  for  them 
very  intensely.  It  reminds  me  of  the  day  when 
he  met  Anita.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  he  had  ever  played  with  a  little  girl;  for 
there  were  only  boys  in  his  first  home,  and  at  the 
School  the  sexes  are  kept  separate.  He  kept 
running  to  me  to  say  with  a  happy  giggle:  "O 
Mother,  I  fink  little  girls  is  just  lots  of  piles  of 
fun!" 

November  ist,  1902.  —  Last  Sunday  Doctor 
Blank  preached  us  an  excellent  sermon  on  the 
indeterminate  sentence,  a  measure  about  to  be 
submitted  to  our  voters,  and  which  seems  a  fit- 
ting subject  for  pulpit  treatment.  I  have  been 
thinking  ever  since  of  the  relationship  there  is 
between  the  larger  and  what  we  call  the  smaller 
affairs  of  life.  Dealing  with  the  little  naughti- 
nesses of  a  child  would,  at  first  thought,  be  classed 
among  the  smaller  affairs  and  penology  among 


An  Adopted  Mother  143 

the  larger,  although  when  you  get  right  down  to 
the  heart  of  the  matter  child-training  is  of  primary 
importance.  One  point  which  he  made  and  illus- 
trated so  that  even  his  youngest  auditors  could 
comprehend  it  was  that  we  no  longer  punish  the 
offender  to  punish  him,  but  to  protect  society. 
Stanley  smiled  appreciatively  when  he  said : 
"Johnny  is  not  tied  to  the  piano  leg  to  get  even 
with  Johnny  for  teasing  his  little  sister,  but  to 
keep  him  where  he  cannot  get  at  his  little  sister 
to  tease  her  any  more. ' ' 

I  was  most  interested  in  what  he  told  us  about 
the  operation  of  the  Beranger  law  in  France, 
whereby  all  criminals  sentenced  for  two  years  or 
less  are  paroled  for  five  and  obliged  to  make 
weekly  reports  to  the  police.  If  their  record  is 
clear  at  the  end  of  this  time,  the  sentence  is  re- 
mitted. He  also  spoke  of  the  excellent  work 
done  in  our  own  country  by  the  Elmira  Reforma- 
tory, where  there  are  criminals  sent  on  indetermi- 
nate sentences.  The  point  of  all  which,  in  this 
connection,  is  that  the  formation  of  right  habits 
is  everything. 

I  suppose  none  of  us  realize  to  what  an  extent 
our  virtue  is  merely  a  habit.  Goodness  is  not 
really  a  part  of  us  until  it  becomes  automatic. 
The  infant  beginning  to  walk  has  to  concentrate 
his  mind  upon  that,  but  after  a  while  he  walks, 
runs,  even  dances  without  giving  thought  to  his 
steps,  and  has  his  mind  free  for  other  matters. 


144  Note-Book  of 

This  wonderful  power  of  habit  is  my  great  hope 
for  Stanley  in  regard  to  his  temper. 

His  first  efforts  at  self-control  were  prompted 
by  fear  of  being  shut  up,  later  ones  by  fear  of  my 
strong  disapproval  as  well,  and  now  he  is  coming 
to  feel  that  it  is  weak  and  unsoldierly  to  give  way 
to  anger.  Eventually  I  hope  he  may  want  to  do 
right  simply  because  it  is  right,  than  which  there 
is  no  higher  incentive.  Meanwhile,  whatever  the 
governing  motive,  the  habit  of  self-control  is 
strengthening,  so  that  by  and  by  it  will  be  easier 
for  him  to  keep  his  temper  than  to  lose  it,  how- 
ever strongly  it  may  stir  within  him.  When  that 
happy  day  comes,  he  may  be  safely  trusted  to 
follow  his  own  line  of  least  resistance,  indepen- 
dent of  father,  mother,  and  all  the  world  be- 
sides. Even  now  he  is  conscious  that  discomfort 
follows  rage.  ' '  Mother, ' '  he  says,  laying  his  hand 
over  the  region  of  heart  and  stomach,  "do  you 
know  that  every  time  after  I  lose  my  temper  I 
feel  bad  in  here?" 

Intellect  is  a  great  modifier  of  disposition,  and 
the  habit  of  thinking  about  and  trying  to  under- 
stand things  is  helping  my  little  lad.  He  is  find- 
ing out  what  makes  him  weak  and  trying  to  avoid 
occasions  of  stumbling.  "I  wish  I  could  know 
what  makes  you  lose  your  temper,"  I  said  to  him 
one  day. 

"Well,  I  '11  tell  you,"  he  replied  seriously. 
"You  see  I  get  so  tired,  and  then,  first  I  know, 


An  Adopted  Mother  145 

I  'm  cross.  I  fink  when  you  let  me  go  to  play 
with  little  boys,  you  'd  better  always  tell  me  to 
come  home  in  half  an  hour." 

Another  time  he  said:  "Do  you  know  why  I 
am  so  cross  to-night?  It  is  because  I  am  vurry, 
vurry  tired.  There  was  church  and  Sunday- 
school,  and  the  walk  out  to  carry  those  papers 
to  that  sick  man,  and  then  I  had  to  play  with  my 
water-bugs  a  lot." 

And  again,  a  third  time,  when  he  was  very 
trying,  I  said:  "Stanley,  what  makes  you  act  so? 
Is  it  because  you  are  tired  or  because  you  are 
naughty? " 

'Which  would  you  rather  have  it?"  said 
he. 

"I  would  rather  think  it  is  because  you  are 
tired." 

"Then  that  's  it,"  he  replied,  "and  you  'd  bet- 
ter put  me  right  to  bed." 

To  bed  he  went,  although  it  was  only  five  in 
the  afternoon,  for  his  diagnosis  was  evidently 
correct  and  his  prescription  as  well. 

He  is  coming  to  feel  more  and  more  responsible 
for  his  moods.  "Do  you  like  me?"  he  asked 
once  after  some  naughtiness.  "Do  you  love  me? 
Even  when  I  am  bad?  You  know  I  am  always 
vurry,  vurry  good  when  I  try  to  be." 

He  is  also  showing  more  disposition  to  atone 
for  the  unhappiness  which  his  fits  of  temper  cause 
others.  ' '  I  want  to  help  you  lots, ' '  he  often  says, 


146  Note-Book  of 

after  one  of  his  outbreaks,  "so  you  won't  feel  so 
sorry  about  my  being  bad." 

The  danger  of  evil  associations  is  becoming 
more  and  more  clear  to  him,  and  that  which  helped 
him  most  in  realizing  it  was  something  which 
happened  when  he  left  his  magnet  lying  for  a  long 
time  against  a  bodkin.  When  he  found  that  the 
bodkin  had  become  a  magnet  he  could  not  under- 
stand it  at  all,  until  I  explained  that  being  right 
with  the  magnet  so  long  had  magnetized  the  bod- 
kin, that  a  great  many  things  besides  magnetism 
could  be  given  in  that  way,  and  that  goodness  and 
badness  were  often  taken  from  other  people  just 
by  being  much  with  them.  We  had  a  sweet  and 
profitable  chat  about  this,  and  Stanley  thought 
that  he  originated  all  the  ideas  and  made  all  the 
discoveries,  not  seeing  that  I  prepared  the  way 
for  him.  He  really  made  these  thoughts  his  own, 
and  that  was  most  profitable.  Predigested  food 
is  as  bad  for  the  mind  as  for  the  body,  I  fancy. 
It  did  not  at  all  impair  the  abiding  influence  of 
the  conversation  when  he  ended  with  a  childish 
anti-climax,  for  it  did  not  strike  him  as  absurd  or 
incongruous.  "And  then  there  's  measles/'  he 
said.  "They  are  Catching,  and  they  are  vurry  bad 
indeed.  You  don't  ever  want  to  play  with  folks 
what  have  the  measles. ' ' 

The  thing  which  interests  and  pleases  me  most 
in  all  our  little  conflicts  is  his  tacit  or  spoken 
acknowledgment  that  I  am  right.  I  believe  that 


An  Adopted  Mother  147 

all  children  come  to  have  a  peculiar  respect  and 
liking  for  those  who  will  consistently  and  with 
unfailing  patience  hold  them  up  to  what  they 
know  is  their  own  best.  There  have  been  many 
funny  incidents  to  show  how  closely  he  watches 
me  for  inconsistencies.  I  remember  once,  when 
he  was  unwilling  to  get  out  of  the  bath-tub 
promptly,  I  told  him  that  the  next  time  he  could 
not  play  with  a  sponge  at  all,  because  he  was 
unwilling  to  leave  it  when  asked. 

Meanwhile  I  forgot  what  I  had  said,  and  when 
the  next  time  came  he  stretched  out  his  hand  for 
the  forbidden  sponge.  "You  don't  remember 
telling  me  anyfing,  do  you?"  he  asked,  with  a 
guilty  look  in  his  eyes. 

I  could  not  remember,  but  I  saw  my  danger. 
"Be  careful  that  you  do  not  forget  it,"  I  replied 
gravely. 

Instantly  the  hand  was  withdrawn  and  he  be- 
came radiant.  "O  Mother,  Mother,"  he  said. 
' '  I  was  afraid  you  forgot !  ' ' 

November  jrd,  1902. —  When  I  was  tucking 
Stanley  into  bed  to-night,  after  a  day  in  which  he 
had  been  absolutely  all  that  heart  could  wish,  so 
sunshiny,  helpful,  and  plucky,  he  said:  "Do  you 
know  why  I  have  been  so  good  to-day? " 

"No." 

"Well,  it's  because  I  got  to  finking  last  night 
that  I  b'leeved  I  'd  feel  better  if  I  'd  be  gooder. 


148  Note-Book  of 

So  I  stood  up  and  said:  'Well,  what  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  about  it  to-morrow?'  (to  myself,  you 
know),  and  I  said  it  real  loud." 

"Yes,  and  then  what  did  you  answer? " 
"Did  n't  say  a   word.     Kept   still,   so   as  to 
s'prise  myself  by  being  good,  you  know!  " 

November  Jth,  1902. — I  have  never  read  any- 
thing on  the  cultivation  of  politeness  in  children 
which  impressed  me  as  more  practically  sugges- 
tive than  an  incident  in  the  papers  a  few  years 
ago.  A  small  boy's  manners  improved  so  after 
he  entered  school  that  his  mother  cross-questioned 
him  to  find  out  what  the  teacher  did  to  secure 
such  results.  "Nothing,"  was  the  indignant 
reply. 

"She  surely  must  do  something,"  persisted  the 
mother. 

"I  tell  you  she  does  n't  do  nothing,"  replied 
the  child.  "She  just  walks  around  and  is  polite, 
and  it  makes  us  feel  as  polite  as  anything." 

One  idea  Ernest  and  I  try  to  develop  in  our 
home — that  the  people  we  love,  and  with  whom 
we  live  every  day,  are  just  as  much  entitled  to 
courtesy  as  guests;  in  fact,  we  say  that  if  any 
difference  is  to  be  made  it  should  be  in  favor  of 
those  dearest  to  us.  Unlike  some  men,  Ernest 
lives  up  to  this.  I  try  to  be  a  good  example, 
also,  but  sometimes  think  that  the  home-maker 
has  to  contend  against  more  practical  difficulties, 


An  Adopted  Mother  149 

because  often  so  flurried  with  conflicting  duties 
and  calls  for  attention.  In  such  emergencies  it  is 
well  if  one  can  fall  back  upon  a  good  reputation 
for  courtesy.  Something  of  that  sort  happened 
this  very  evening,  and  made  me  think  on  these 
things. 

I  was  very  tired,  and  Stanley  had  many  last 
requests  to  make  after  he  was  in  bed,  all  coming 
from  his  own  fatigue  and  restlessness,  and  yet  so 
plausible  that  there  was  nothing  for  me  but  to 
accede.  At  last  I  threw  myself  on  my  own  bed 
for  a  wee  nap  before  beginning  my  evening's 
work.  Another  question  came,  and  I  answered 
in  a  tone  which  certainly  was  impatient,  although 
the  words  were  right. 

There  was  quite  a  silence,  and  then  a  grieved 
little  voice  from  the  next  room  said:  "Why, 
Mother,  you  talk  as  if  you  was  scolding  me." 
Then,  happily:  "But  I  know  you  was  n't  reelly, 
because  I  know  you  don't  scold." 

How  ashamed  I  felt !  I  could  only  answer 
truthfully:  "I  am  sorry.  I  did  n't  mean  to  scold, 
dear." 

My  shame  deepened  as  Stanley  added:  "I 
know!  You  don't  need  to  tell  me.  I  know  you 
ar'n't  that  kind  of  a  mother." 

He  is  very  discriminating  as  to  "kinds  of 
mothers."  "What  do  you  fink?"  he  asked  the 
other  day.  "When  I  was  over  to  Edwin's,  his 
mother  said  that  he  could  do  somefing  and  then 


150  Note-Book  of 

that  he  could  n't.  After  she  had  said  that  he 
could,  you  know." 

Mothers  need  to  be  extra  good,  I  am  sure,  be- 
cause their  children  see  them  behind  the  scenes 
while  constantly  seeing  other  people  before  the 
footlights.  Once  when  I  was  delayed  about  get- 
ting dinner,  and  so  over-hurried  in  my  prepara- 
tions, I  asked  Stanley  to  save  his  questions.  "I 
cannot  answer  them  now,"  I  said  rather  emphati- 
cally; "don't  you  see  how  many  things  I  am 
cooking  all  at  once?  " 

"If  I  was  the  minister's  little  boy,"  he  re- 
marked, "if  I  was  the  minister's  little  boy,  I  fink 
he  would  tell  me  rings  even  if  he  was  cooking." 

Perhaps  one  reason  why  it  is  so  hard  to  in- 
culcate politeness  is  that  it  is  difficult  to  explain 
the  reason  back  of  many  small  refinements  of  life. 
Conventionality  is  in  almost  constant  conflict  with 
a  child's  instincts,  and  yet,  if  we  are  not  afraid  to 
think,  or  too  indolent  to  explain,  we  can  generally 
make  children  understand  that  there  is  a  good 
reason  for  all  social  usages.  Then  they  see  some 
sense  in  observing  them.  Stanley  is  chivalry 
itself  in  the  matter  of  waiting  on  girls  and  women, 
for  he  understands  that  they  are  not  equal  to 
heavy  work,  like  boys  and  men.  Table  manners 
are  the  hardest  for  him  to  acquire,  yet  he  is  quick 
to  notice  their  lack  in  others.  "Mother,"  he 
said,  soon  after  a  certain  clergyman  left  our 
house:  "Mother,  was  n't  it  too  bad  how  Doctor 


An  Adopted  Mother  151 

Blank  played  with  his  spoon?  He  did  just  this 
way."  Whereupon  he  repeated  a  nervous  trick 
of  Doctor  Blank's  to  perfection. 

And  what  could  I  say?  Only  that  the  gentle- 
man's mother  had  probably  not  made  him  careful 
when  he  was  a  little  boy. 

I  tell  Stanley  that  when  people  really  have  to 
say  things  which  others  do  not  like  to  hear,  it  is 
well  to  begin  with  something  pleasant  if  possible, 
and  I  have  illustrated  what  I  mean,  he  seeming 
to  catch  the  idea.  There  is  much  in  the  way  a 
statement  is  made,  and  I  was  greatly  edified  a 
few  days  since  by  his  manner  of  declining  an  invi- 
tation to  visit  some  elderly  acquaintances.  ' '  Fank 
you,"  he  said,  "but  I  reelly  need  all  my  time  for 
play." 

When  one  remembers  that  he  is  the  most  boyish 
type  of  boy,  brimming  over  with  fun  and  seldom 
still  for  a  minute,  Stanley's  manners  seem  very 
fair.  He  should  be  classified  in  the  sweater  type, 
in  contradistinction  to  the  ruffled-collar  type,  yet 
I  hope  he  can  grow  up  without  ever  feeling  that 
gentlemanliness  and  manliness  are  incompatible. 
On  one  point  I  am  perfectly  satisfied.  I  never 
knew  a  child  who  so  uniformly  respected  the 
property  of  others.  If  this  is  my  doing,  it  has 
not  been  to  any  appreciable  extent  the  result 
of  precept,  but  almost  entirely  that  of  example. 
He  has  his  shelves  and  his  desk  for  toys  and 
papers.  When  he  finishes  playing  with  certain 


152  Note-Book  of 

things  he  is  supposed  to  return  them  to  place  be- 
fore taking  out  others.  At  night  his  belongings 
are  to  be  in  his  receptacles.  If  I  find  them  else- 
where I  have  the  privilege  of  putting  them  away 
for  a  week.  When  they  are  kept  within  bounds 
I  never  interfere.  I  never  destroy  a  scrap  of 
paper  or  string  belonging  to  him,  although  the 
accumulation  may  be  tremendous.  Instead,  I 
wait  for  some  rainy  day  and  let  him  sort  them 
over  for  a  bonfire  in  the  grate,  I  being  near  to 
offer  a  word  of  advice  now  and  then. 

An  acquaintance  of  mine  recently  told  what  a 
terrible  temper  her  daughter  exhibited  because 
the  mother  had  burned  up  "a  litter  of  old  toys" 
without  warning  the  child.  I  wonder  how  I 
would  feel  if  somebody  were  to  destroy  half  of 
my  possessions  in  my  absence?  I  rather  think  I 
should  develop  a  temper  also,  and  where  is  the 
difference  from  an  ethical  standpoint?  Children 
tire  of  most  toys  in  a  few  weeks,  and  are  perfectly 
willing  to  have  them  destroyed,  put  away  for  a 
time,  or  sent  in  mission  boxes,  if  they  are  worth 
sending.  Courtesy  and  consideration  will  never 
become  natural  to  a  child,  will  never  be  anything 
more  than  a  veneer  added  for  the  sake  of  policy, 
unless  he  has  witnessed  and  experienced  the  re- 
sults of  politeness  at  home,  while  still  in  the 
plastic  period  of  life. 

November  loth,  1902. — To-night  I  had  a  sweet 


An  Adopted  Mother  153 

little  surprise  as  a  comforting  close  to  what  had 
been  an  unusually  wearing  day.  I  was  watching 
Stanley  undress  himself  for  bed,  lending  a  hand 
occasionally  on  the  hardest  buttons  and  the  tight- 
est knots  of  the  shoe-laces,  when  he  suddenly 
paused,  put  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  his  chin 
on  his  hand,  and  said:  "O,  Mother,  I  don't  see 
how  I  could  ever  get  along  without  you !  " 

"What  made  you  think  of  that,  dear?  "  I  said. 

"Well,  I  was  just  finking  what  a  good  mother 
you  are  and  what  lots  of  rings  you  do  for  me,  and 
then  I  fought  how  I  just  could  n't  stand  it  not  to 
have  you.  You  are  reelly  a  very  good  mother, 
you  know.  ...  I  just  love  to  look  at  you." 

November  ijth,  1902. — Perseverance  and  pa- 
tience will  accomplish  almost  anything  with  a 
child  who  thinks.  What  puzzles  me  now  is 
whether  all  children  can  be  induced  to  think.  I 
believe  they  can — at  least  all  who  could  not  be 
classified  as  defectives.  I  should  hesitate  to  gen- 
eralize on  the  strength  of  my  experience  with 
Stanley,  but  presuming  on  what  I  have  had  with 
several  hundred  other  children,  and  taking  him 
only  as  corroborative  evidence,  I  feel  quite  sure 
of  my  ground. 

I  more  and  more  firmly  believe  that  any  method 
of  governing  children  is  a  failure  unless  it  has  for 
its  fundamental  idea  the  making  them  self-govern- 
ing just  as  soon  as  they  are  capable  and  to  just 


i54  Note-Book  of 

the  extent  in  which  they  are  capable,  not  waiting 
to  give  them  all  the  responsibility  at  once,  but 
letting  them  assume  it  a  little  at  a  time. 

A  man  must  fight  his  battles  with  himself,  and 
it  is  better  that  a  boy  should  do  the  same.  Any 
other  method  is  only  temporary  and  a  makeshift. 
I  have  thought  this  for  many  years,  and  the  way 
in  which  my  belief  is  modified  as  time  passes  is 
that  I  feel  more  and  more  faith  in  the  child.  If 
children  live  among  those  who  are  honest  with 
each  other  and  with  themselves,  it  becomes  nat- 
ural for  them  to  be  equally  candid. 

I  have  much  to  encourage  me  in  regard  to 
Stanley.  Yesterday  he  and  I  lunched  together, 
Ernest  being  out  of  town.  He  likes  to  wait  upon 
himself,  but  spilled  some  cream  which  he  was 
pouring.  I  had  cautioned  him  in  advance,  so 
afterward  I  helped  undo  the  mischief  and  kept 
still.  After  chatting  about  other  things  for  a 
while,  he  said :  "Little  boys  feel  better  when  they 
are  good,  don't  they?  You  know  I  was  sort  of 
careless  and  spilled  that  cream.  .  .  .  Careless 
is  n't  bad,  but  it  's  pretty  much  alike,  and  boys 
does  feel  better  when  they  are  good — when  they 
are  vurry,  vurry  good." 

This  morning  he  was  a  disturbing  element 
during  prayers,  which  are  never  long,  and  are 
planned  especially  with  the  idea  of  making  them 
comprehensible  to  him.  Afterward  I  said  he 
should  sit  quietly  in  his  chair  for  ten  minutes  to 


An  Adopted  Mother  155 

make  up  for  it.  If  he  could  not  sit  quietly,  then 
he  would  have  to  try  it  longer.  I  put  his  chair 
in  front  of  the  clock,  showed  him  where  the  hands 
would  be  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes,  and  told  him 
that  he  might  get  up  then  if  he  felt  sure  he  had 
been  good  enough. 

I  went  about  my  work  in  another  room.  Ten 
minutes  passed  and  all  was  quiet,  although  there 
had  been  a  little  noise  at  first.  At  the  end  of 
thirteen  he  came  dancing  to  the  door  with  his 
face  aglow.  "I  am  all  right  now,  Mother,"  he 
said.  "I  was  a  little  bad  at  the  very  first,  so  I 
did  n't  get  up  at  the  time  you  said,  but  I  fink  it  's 
fair  to  now." 

What  a  change  in  the  last  six  months !  Then 
telling  him  to  sit  in  his  chair  for  ten  minutes 
would  make  a  scene  for  an  hour,  ending  in  a 
striking  and  kicking  outburst  of  temper,  floods  of 
tears,  and  a  tired  mother  and  son  for  the  rest  of 
the  day. 

November  iqth,  1902. —  Is  there  any  subject 
which  will  so  entrance  the  average  child  as  the 
coming  of  a  new  baby  to  some  home  in  which  he 
is  interested?  I  am  sure  there  is  none  which  will 
so  stimulate  his  natural  inclination  to  ask  ques- 
tions. And  they  are  such  hard  questions  to  an- 
swer !  The  one  mistake  that  my  mother  made  in 
her  early  life  with  me  was  giving  untrue  replies 
to  these  questions.  I  remember  she  had  always 


Note-Book  of 


told  of  finding  me  in  a  rose  beside  the  front  porch. 
I  had  asked  her  on  which  of  the  several  bushes 
there  that  particular  rose  grew.  She  pointed  out 
the  tallest,  and  for  several  successive  Junes  I 
made  furtive  examinations  of  all  its  buds  in  the 
hope  of  finding  a  baby  brother  or  sister. 

Not  until  I  was  eight  years  old  and  more  criti- 
cal did  it  occur  to  me  that  roses  do  not  bloom  or 
even  bud  early  in  March.  It  was  a  fatal  anachron- 
ism, and  nothing  in  all  my  childhood  was  such  a 
deep  and  lasting  hurt  as  the  loss  of  confidence  in 
my  mother  which  came  to  me  then.  I  know  that 
she  was  only  following  the  custom  of  her  time  in 
hushing  all  such  queries  and  putting  me  off  with 
evasive  and  fanciful  answers,  but  the  results  were 
disastrous,  and  she  was  so  far  in  advance  of  her 
time  in  all  her  other  ideas  of  child-training  that 
this  mistake  stands  out  more  prominently  by 
comparison.  I  resolved  long  ago  that  whatever 
questions  Stanley  might  ask  should  either  be 
answered  truthfully  or  not  at  all. 

He  is  very  fond  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Woodward, 
and  often  wishes  that  their  little  son  had  lived  to 
be  a  comfort  to  them  and  a  playmate  for  him. 
When  he  first  heard  that  there  had  once  been  a 
baby  there,  and  asked  how  long  it  had  lived,  I 
told  him  "only  a  short  time,  about  an  hour  and  a 
half." 

"How  long  is  that?  "  he  asked. 

"About  as  long  as  we  stay  in  church." 


An  Adopted  Mother  157 

"As  long  as  we  stay  in  church?"  said  he. 
"Well,  I  fink  that  is  pretty  long." 

This  morning  I  had  great  joy  in  the  news  with 
which  I  awakened  him.  "I  have  something  very 
sweet  to  tell  you,  dear,"  I  said.  "God  has  given 
a  little  daughter  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Woodward." 

And  then  there  was  trouble,  for  he  thought 
"God  reelly  ought  to  have  sent  her  here,"  and  it 
took  all  my  tact  and  persuasiveness  to  convince 
him  that  she  was  more  needed  in  the  home  to 
which  she  had  been  sent.  Then  the  questions 
began. 

"How  did  God  get  her  down?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  that.  When  they  first  saw 
her  she  was  on  the  bed  in  Mrs.  Woodward's  room, 
and  I  can't  tell  you  any  more." 

"Mother,  if  you  had  found  her  there  would  she 
have  been  yours? " 

"No." 

"Not  even  if  you  owned  the  house?" 

"Not  if  the  Woodwards  were  living  there." 

"But,  Mother,  s'posing  you  owned  it  and  it  was 
empty?" 

"Yes,  I  might  have  kept  her  if  she  had  been 
found  in  an  empty  house  of  mine."  (It  occurs 
to  me  to  wonder  if  this  had  anything  to  do  with 
Stanley's  wanting  to  play  around  one  of  my 
houses  which  is  unoccupied,  to-day.) 

After  breakfast  came  another  flood  of  questions, 
too  many  to  record  them  all.  "How  old  was  the 


158  Note-Book  of 

baby  when  she  came?  Not  old  at  all?  Just  fin- 
ished? How  old  is  she  now?  Not  quite  one  day? 
Humph !  If  she  was  a  boy,  she  'd  be  a  lot  older 
'n  that  by  this  time!" 

November  2Oth,  1902. — This  morning  Stanley 
crawled  sleepily  out  of  bed,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 
said,  quite  as  though  he  had  been  considering  the 
matter  all  night:  "I  'm  going  to  have  a  baby  of 
my  own  pretty  soon,  Mother.  I  'm  going  to  buy 
one.  I  fink  I  will  buy  the  Bertram  baby.  Don't 
you  fink  she  is  a  good  one? " 

November  2ist,  1902. — Mine  is  such  a  busy  life 
that  when  Stanley  first  came  I  wondered  how  I 
should  find  time  to  keep  up  a  real  intimacy  with 
him  and  still  not  neglect  >the  work  already  on 
hand.  It  is  not  good  for  a  child  to  have  preoccu- 
pied parents  and  be  greeted  with  a  request  to 
"run  away,  dear,"  nearly  every  time  that  he 
comes  in  with  what  he  considers  news  of  great 
importance.  Now  I  have  things  on  a  most  satis- 
factory basis.  From  the  time  I  rise  until  he  is  off 
for  school,  I  do  what  I  call  "interruptable  work," 
tucking  in  light  household  tasks  which  I  do  not 
care  to  delegate  to  my  one  servant.  When  he 
leaves  I  write  out  the  bill-of-fare  for  the  next 
twenty-four  hours,  then  I  go  to  my  desk  until  he 
returns  for  luncheon.  While  he  is  eating  I  sew 
and  visit  with  him.  He  leaves,  Ernest  comes, 


An  Adopted  Mother  159 

and  we  have  our  luncheon.  Ernest  leaves,  and  I 
dress  for  the  afternoon,  work  at  my  desk  until 
Stanley  comes,  give  myself  utterly  to  visiting  with 
him,  hearing  about  his  school-day,  the  new  words 
he  has  learned,  etc.,  until  he  is  ready  to  play. 
Then  we  settle  on  the  playmate  and  the  field  of 
their  activity,  and  I  am  often  free  to  go  out  for  a 
couple  of  calls,  my  marketing  for  the  next  day, 
or  perhaps  a  four-mile  walk  in  the  country. 

With  Stanley's  short  school  hours  I  can  easily 
do  this  and  still  have  twenty  minutes  or  so  to 
snuggle  and  visit  in  the  couch  corner  or  look  at 
"animal  books  "  when  he  is  ready  for  dinner  and 
before  it  is  served.  After  dinner  we  play  marbles 
or  something  equally  mild  until  the  clock  strikes 
seven.  Then  he  goes  to  bed,  and  when  he  is 
tucked  in  I  have  my  evening  before  me,  the  first 
part  being  sometimes  broken  in  upon  by  his  diffi- 
culty in  going  to  sleep. 

I  do  not  see  that  he  has  really  taken  very  much 
of  my  time,  yet  he  has  always  found  me  approach- 
able, and  as  bed-time  draws  near  he  has  been  per- 
mitted to  monopolize  me  utterly  for  a  while. 
He  never  doubts  that  he  will  be  welcome,  and 
salutes  me  on  his  return  from  school  with  his 
familiar:  "O  Mother,  you  are  always  so  glad  to 
see  me!  Oh,  ar'nt  you  glad  you  have  a  little 
boy?  And  am  I  not  glad  I  have  a  mother? 
S'posing  we  did  n't  have  each  other!  Would  n't 
that  be  sad?" 


160  Note-Book  of 

In  the  emergencies  when  I  cannot  be  free  to 
visit  with  him  at  the  regular  times,  he  seems  to 
think  it  quite  as  much  a  misfortune  for  me  as  for 
him,  and  if  it  is  writing  or  something  of  that  sort 
which  preoccupies  me,  he  tiptoes  around  very 
carefully,  saying:  "I  will  take  Peter  into  the 
other  room  so  he  won't  'sturb  you,  and  then  you 
will  be  froo  sooner,  and  wont  you  be  glad  when 
you  can  visit  with  your  boy? " 

Stanley  has  told  me,  with  the  suggestive  candor 
of  childhood,  that  his  "other  mother  had  a  very 
beautiful  face,"  but  he  quite  took  away  the  sting 
of  this  when  he  said,  a  day  or  so  later:  "I  love  to 
look  at  your  face,  Mother,  because  it  is  always  so 
smiley  in  it." 

What  I  am  aiming  at  is  this — and  I  wish  to  put 
it  on  paper  for  my  own  benefit,  to  be  reread  in 
the  days  when  it  is  easy  to  lose  hold  of  the  better 
way  of  doing  things — that  I  know  there  is  rarely 
a  day,  in  my  life  at  least,  when  I  cannot  by  care- 
ful planning  give  to  my  boy  all  he  needs  of  the 
fullest  and  sweetest  companionship.  It  is  very 
little  time  that  a  thoroughly  healthy  child  of 
school  age  can  be  with  his  mother,  and  it  is  poor 
policy  and  poor  economy  of  time  (in  the  long  run) 
for  the  mother  to  put  him  off  then. 

Before  I  had  my  views  formulated  and  my  sys- 
tem so  well  developed,  there  were  days  when  I  let 
Stanley  play  out  too  long  before  dinner,  thus  get- 
ting an  extra  quarter  of  an  hour  in  which  to  finish 


An  Adopted  Mother  161 

some  interesting  task.  Things  always  went  wrong 
in  consequence,  and  it  took  me  quite  a  while  to 
see  the  relation  between  cause  and  effect.  Being 
overtired,  he  would  rebel  at  the  cleaning  up  which 
had  to  precede  dinner,  be  disagreeable  at  the 
table,  and  when  tucked  into  bed  would  have  long 
crying  spells  and  suffer  from  fright  or  something 
—he  did  not  know  what.  Often  my  stolen  fifteen 
minutes  made  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  for  me, 
and  by  the  time  he  was  safely  asleep  I  was  too 
tired  and  unstrung  to  do  anything  but  follow  his 
example.  It  takes  considerable  steadfastness  al- 
ways to  follow  the  wise  and  far-sighted  policy,  but 
it  pays  every  time. 

November  2jth,  1902. — I  shall  always  remember 
a  sermon  on  "Unconscious  Influence"  which  I 
heard  preached  five  years  ago,  but  I  heard  another 
and  much  briefer  one  in  my  own  kitchen  to-day 
which  will  linger  quite  as  long  in  my  memory. 

The  text  of  the  first  sermon  was  from  the  fifth 
chapter  of  Acts:  "They  brought  forth  the  sick 
into  the  streets,  and  laid  them  on  beds  and 
couches,  that  at  the  least  the  shadow  of  Peter 
passing  by  might  overshadow  some  of  them." 

The  text  of  the  second  sermon  appears  to  have 
been  my  kitchen  apron,  which  I  had  unwittingly 
misused  in  some  emergency. 

Stanley  had  been  playing  beside  me  as  I  pre- 
pared for  our  Thanksgiving  dinner  party.  He 


1 62  Note-Book  of 

had  his  small  work-apron  on  and  his  hands  and 
arms  were  quite  wet,  when  for  some  reason  he 
suddenly  needed  to  have  them  dry.  I  had  just 
removed  the  hand  towel  to  substitute  a  new  one. 

"Dear!  "  said  he.  "My  hands  are  all  wet.  I 
know!  I  '11  wipe  'em  on  my  apron.  There! 
You  see  I  don't  have  to  ask  you  if  I  can  do  that, 
because  I  've  seen  you  do  it  your  own  self." 

I  doubt  if  studied  oratory  ever  sent  a  sermon 
home  to  the  auditor's  heart  as  Stanley's  upturned 
face  of  smiling  trust  sent  this  home  to  mine.  And 
won't  I  have  a  care  in  the  future  for  kitchen  aprons 
— and  other  things? 

November  28th,  1902. — This  rather  unfortunate 
Thanksgiving  Day  began  with  a  bad  fire  in  our 
furnace  chimney  and  ended  with  my  servant's 
leaving  me  for  a  factory.  The  fire  started  before 
daylight,  and  when  I  went  out  to  see  the  flames 
they  were  still  blazing  high.  Being  reduced  to 
soft  coal  had  made  the  mischief,  and  it  was  really 
a  close  call  for  the  house. 

Ernest  felt  that  our  escape  from  a  big  fire  was 
almost  miraculous,  and  kept  alluding  to  it  at 
table.  He  did  not  notice  how  wide  Stanley's 
eyes  were  opening,  or  think  about  the  effect  on 
him,  until  a  reproachful  voice  said:  "Do  you 
fink  it  is  a  good  fing  to  talk  about  chimneys  burn- 
ing out  before  little  boys?  " 

And  that  has  made  me  wonder  if  we  are  not 


An  Adopted  Mother  163 

often  inconsiderate  in  this  way.  We  hold  back 
things  which  we  do  not  wish  to  have  repeated 
outside,  but  in  that  we  are  only  selfish.  We  do 
not  think  enough  of  how  our  chance  remarks  may 
be  the  base  of  persisting  fears.  In  another  way 
I  know  that  I  sometimes  fail  to  keep  the  right 
balance.  Ernest  and  I  have  so  little  time  to- 
gether that  we  have  much  to  discuss  at  meal- 
hours,  and  I  ask  Stanley  to  talk  less  on  that 
account.  I  do  not  wish  him  to  eat  in  silence,  for 
he  must  be  our  companion  and  learn  to  talk  easily 
and  well,  but  sometimes  I  forget  and  talk  above 
his  head  for  too  long.  This  happened  a  few 
nights  since,  and  then  he  said  politely  but  firmly : 
"If  you  please,  I  would  like  to  talk  about  fishes 
and  guns  and  nice  fings." 

One  point  has  to  be  insisted  upon,  however,  in 
this  family.  When  Ernest  and  I  are  talking  to 
each  other,  we  must  not  be  interrupted  with  re- 
quests for  explanations  of  what  we  have  said. 
Stanley  understands  that  when  we  talk  to  him  we 
will  explain  as  much  as  may  be  necessary,  and 
that  is  all.  Of  course  I  sometimes  find  the  tables 
turned,  but  I  can  stand  that,  although  it  is  hard 
to  keep  a  straight  face  when  he  says,  in  reply  to 
some  impulsive  question  of  mine:  "I  was  telling 
Father  about  that,  and  I  don't  fink  I  can  explain 
it  to  you."  That  is  one  of  the  times  when  I 
pocket  my  pride  for  the  sake  of  his  sense  of  fair 
play. 


1 64  Note-Book  of 

November  jotk,  1902. — Our  poor  little  lad  is 
asleep  at  last,  and  I  am  nearly  exhausted  from 
the  strain  of  trying  to  comfort  him  and  hold  back 
my  own  tears.  To  think  that  he  has  had  such  a 
heartache  and  kept  it  from  me  all  these  months! 
It  must  be  that  when  he  left  the  School,  he  and  his 
brother  Sidney  built  air-castles  and  dwelt  in  them 
so  long  that  they  came  to  count  them  as  realities, 
for  I  am  sure  those  in  authority  would  not  ease 
the  parting  by  making  false  promises.  At  all 
events  he  came  here  in  the  belief  that  his  brother 
was  soon  to  follow,  and  his  poor,  loyal  little  heart 
has  been  growing  weary  with  hope  deferred. 

He  has  asked  me  several  times  when  he  could 
have  Sidney  to  play  with  again,  and  I  have  told 
him  to  be  patient  until  we  should  visit  my  mother 
in  the  city  where  the  School  is  situated — then  we 
would  go  up  and  get  him.  I  never  dreamed  that 
we  were  misunderstanding  each  other.  Neither 
did  I  dream  that  Stanley's  frequent  crying  spells 
at  night  were  caused  by  homesickness  for  Sidney. 
He  always  said  it  was  because  he  was  so  tired, 
and  in  a  sense  I  suppose  he  was  right. 

But  it  all  came  out  to-night  when  he  asked  me 
if  Sidney  were  not  coming  here  to  live  pretty 
soon.  I  answered  as  tactfully  as  I  could  and  be 
truthful.  Then  came  the  break-down.  I  hope  I 
shall  never  again  witness  such  floods  of  tears  and 
such  anguish  of  spirit  in  a  little  child.  For  a  long 
time  he  could  not  even  speak,  then  he  began  to 


An  Adopted  Mother  165 

plead  brokenly  for  Sidney  in  a  way  that  was 
harder  for  me  than  the  passion  of  crying  which 
had  preceded  it. 

"He  is  the  vurry  goodest  brother  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  You  would  like  him.  .  .  .  He  could 
do  lots  of  fings  for  you — more  than  I  can.  .  .  . 
I  want  to  see  him  so  bad  that  it  seems  as  if  I  would 
die.  And  I  know  he  wants  to  see  me  just  as  bad. 
.  .  .  We  are  brothers,  you  know,  and  broth- 
ers had  ought  to  be  together,  don't  you  fink  so? 
.  .  .  He  is  bigger  than  I  am.  He  is  eight 
years  old,  and  he  could  help  take  care  of  me  when 
I  am  so  little.  Then  I  would  n't  make  you  so 
much  work  and  you  would  n't  get  so  tired.  .  .  . 
O  dear,  dear,  DEAR  Mother,  you  don't  know 
how  it  feels  to  want  somebody  so  bad  and  not 
have  him.  .  .  .  Don't  cry,  Mother.  Please 
don't !  Is  it  about  your  little  baby  what  is  up 
with  God?  Do  you  want  him  as  bad  as  I  want 
my  brother?  .  .  .  See,  I  am  stopping  crying. 

I  will  be  froo  pretty  soon,  and  then  I  can 
comfort  you  better.  .  .  .  There !  Put  your 
head  on  my  shoulder  and  I  will  pat  your  cheek. 

I  wish  you  was  my  brother,  and  then 
we  would  have  another  mother  just  exactly  like 
you.  .  .  .  I  'm  afraid,  though,  there  is  n't 
any  other  mother  in  the  world  what  looks  like 
you.  .  .  .  Don't  cry!  Just  laugh  about 
somefing  and  keep  right  on  laughing,  and  then 
you  '11  stop  crying.  .  .  .  I  do  that  way  lots 


1 66  Note-Book  of 

of  times  when  I  get  to  finking  about  Sidney  and 
wanting  him — only  it  's  harder  when  you  're  in 
bed.  .  .  .  It  is  harder  when  you  're  so  tired, 
too.  .  .  .  We  will  have  to  comfort  each  other, 
won't  we?  And  you  know  I  'm  a  comfort,  don't 
you?  .  .  .  Only  I  reelly  fink  it  is  worse  about 
Sidney,  'cause  he  is  just  at  the  School  and  the 
big  boys  are  mean  to  him.  You  know  the  angels 
ar'n't  teasing  your  baby." 

The  dear  little  fellow  is  hardly  more  than  a 
baby  himself,  in  spite  of  his  manly  ways  and  his 
clear  thinking,  and  I  stayed  by  to  cuddle  and 
soothe  him  as  well  as  I  could  for  two  hours,  until 
his  tired  and  tear-stained  eyes  closed  in  sleep. 
Then  Ernest  came  and  we  both  broke  down  when 
I  told  him  about  it.  Of  course  taking  a  second 
boy  is  out  of  the  question,  for  that  would  mean 
three  children  in  the  home  after  we  adopted  the 
little  girl,  yet  if  Ernest  were  willing,  I  believe  I 
would  be.  Sidney  is  certainly  an  exceptionally 
desirable  boy,  for  I  watched  him  closely  when 
deciding  upon  Stanley. 

December  ist  (morning),  1902. — Stanley  is  facing 
the  inevitable  with  his  usual  courage.  "You 
know  about  last  night?"  he  said,  while  I  was 
helping  him  dress.  "Well,  it  's  all  over  now. 
But,  Mother,  you  will  be  a  comfort  to  me,  won't 
you?  .  .  .  Mother,  why  do  you  ever  talk 
cross  to  me?" 


An  Adopted  Mother  167 

"Do  I,  dear?  Is  n't  it  just  when  I  am  in  a 
hurry  and  say  something  quickly?  " 

"No,  sometimes  you  say  'Stanley!'  just  like 
that,  and  it  makes  me  feel  bad." 

Evidently  I  have  not  yet  learned  how  to  be 
"the  best  kind  of  a  comfort." 

December  1st  (night),  1902. — This  has  been  one 
of  those  days  when  things  come  in  a  heap.  Four 
big  rolls  of  proof  on  my  desk  to  be  read  and  re- 
turned by  to-night's  mail,  and  an  unusual  amount 
of  work  to  do  in  the  kitchen.  A  very  busy  morn- 
ing was  just  ended  when  Stanley  came  home  from 
school  in  his  usual  voracious  state  and  asked  me 
to  get  him  a  new  slate-cloth  while  he  ate.  I 
could  n't  just  then,  but  spread  forth  the  luncheon 
which  he  always  has  to  eat  early  and  alone,  and 
visited  with  him  while  preparing  the  luncheon 
proper,  which  has  to  suit  the  hours  of  a  business 
man,  uncertain  as  those  may  be. 

So  it  chanced  that,  by  the  time  I  was  free  to 
find  the  slate-cloth,  I  had  quite  forgotten.  Stan- 
ley had  also,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  eaten, 
washed,  been  given  a  supplementary  polish,  prop- 
erly kissed  and  ushered  to  the  front  door,  that 
either  of  us  remembered  the  slate-cloth.  I  flew 
back  and  found  an  old  piece  of  cretonne,  the  birds 
and  flowers  of  which  I  thought  would  delight  any 
child. 

When  I  reappeared  Stanley  refused  to  take  it. 


1 68  Note-Book  of 

The  other  boys  had  white  ones  and  he  wanted  a 
white  one.  I  regretted  that  he  was  not  pleased 
with  it,  but  said  it  was  all  I  could  give  him  then. 
He  declared  he  would  go  without  any.  I  said 
that  his  teacher  had  told  him  to  bring  one,  and  it 
would  be  wrong  in  him  not  to  do  so  when  he 
might  have  this. 

With  a  face  like  a  thunder-cloud  he  replied  :  "I 
don't  care,  I  won't  take  it!  So  now!  " 

There  were  signs  of  a  genuine  explosion  of 
temper  coming,  so  I  dropped  the  cloth  on  the 
front  steps  and  said:  "I  have  no  time  to  stand 
here  and  talk.  There  is  the  cloth.  Miss  Murray 
told  you  to  bring  one,  and  I  have  given  you  this. 
Now  I  shall  not  even  wait  to  see  whether  you 
mind.  Good-by. " 

The  kitchen  work  went  on,  Ernest  came  to 
luncheon,  and  I  was  just  ready  to  begin  on  the 
proof,  when  the  door-bell  rang  and  I  went,  only 
to  find  Stanley  and  a  second  boy,  the  latter  with 
a  note.  Stanley  was  tearful  and  with  those  mys- 
terious grimy  streaks  which  appear  on  even  the 
cleanest  boy's  face  when  he  cries  (to  my  mind 
one  of  the  strongest  evidences  that  we  were  created 
out  of  dust).  The  note  was  from  Miss  Murray. 
4  *  Stanley  says  that  he  is  sick,"  she  wrote,  "and  so 
I  send  him  home." 

He  had  told  me  only  a  few  days  before  of  a 
playmate  who  had  feigned  illness  to  obtain  an 
afternoon  for  play,  so  my  suspicions  were  aroused. 


An  Adopted  Mother  169 

I  appeared  most  concerned  and  tucked  him 
up,  protesting,  on  the  sitting-room  lounge.  If 
little  boys  were  too  sick  to  stay  in  school, 
they  must  keep  very,  very  quiet  and  not  try  to 
play  with  anything.  I  would  go  into  the  next 
room  with  my  work  and  perhaps  he  might  fall 
asleep. 

Soon  he  followed  and  was  sobbing  on  my  shoul- 
der. "Mother,"  said  he,  "I  don't  fink  that  per- 
haps I  am  reelly  sick.  Not  some  ways,  anyhow. 
I  don't  fink  I  need  to  lie  down.  I  fink  I  'd  better 
get  up  on  your  lap." 

"Well,  just  for  a  minute,  dear,  until  I  am  sure 
what  is  the  matter  with  you,"  I  said,  thinking 
that  a  little  cuddling  might  restore  healthy  action 
to  the  conscience. 

Then  the  confession  came,  with  copious  tears 
and  stormy  sobbing.  "Mother,  I  felt  so  vurry, 
vurry  badly. — That  made  me  sick. — It  was  about 
that  cloth,  you  know. — I  did  n't  take  it. — But  I 
kept  finking  and  finking  about  it, — and  I  could  n't 
study — and  we  had  a  class — and  I  could  n't  read 
I  cried  instead  and  I  fought  I  was  sick. — But  I 
am  not.  Only  I  feel  so. — My  head  aches  and 
in  here  [placing  his  hand  over  his  heart] — And, 
O  Mother,!  am  so  vurry,  vurry  sorry." 

There  is  no  use  of  putting  down  what  I  said. 
They  were  the  same  things  which  any  mother 
would  have  said  in  my  place,  only  I  may  have 
laid  more  stress  than  some  would  upon  God's 


1 70  Note-Book  of 

wish  that  we  should  not  make  ourselves  unhappy 
over  confessed  and  forgiven  naughtinesses. 

Next  I  had  to  persuade  him  to  return  to  school 
and  resume  his  work.  He  felt  he  could  not.  I 
had  to  tell  him  that  if  he  refused  to  go  it  would 
make  him  feel  sick  and  unhappy  again,  and  it 
would  not  be  right  for  him  to  miss  doing  his  work 
when  he  felt  better.  It  was  right  for  him  to  come 
home  and  tell  me  how  sorry  he  was,  but  now  it 
was  right  for  him  to  go  back.  Then  I  wrote  and 
read  aloud  a  note  to  Miss  Murray,  saying  that 
Stanley  was  feeling  better  and  was  coming  back 
to  work.  A  good  washing  of  hands  and  face,  an 
extra  portion  of  good-by  kisses,  and  he  went  off 
radiant,  with  the  cretonne  clutched  in  his  hand, 
"an  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an  inward  and 
spiritual  grace." 

"Isn't  it  queer,"  he  said,  "how  you  stop 
feeling  sick  after  you  've  told  your  mother 
rings?" 

December  ^.th,  1902. — Stanley's  interest  in  the 
Woodward  baby  shows  no  signs  of  flagging,  al- 
though of  course  he  has  asked  so  many  questions 
and  received  so  many  answers  that  he  does  not 
feel  the  necessity  of  talking  quite  so  much.  Her 
constantly  increasing  age  is  now  the  matter  of 
greatest  interest.  This  morning  his  first  question 
was,  "How  old  is  that  dear  little  baby  now?" 
And  when  I  told  him  he  said:  "Now  she  has 


An  Adopted  Mother  171 

sleeped  on  earf  fifteen  nights.     I  fink  she  is  get- 
ting pretty  old,  for  her." 

December  6th,  1902. — Last  night  I  had  another 
illustration  of  Stanley's  keen  analysis  of  his  own 
failings,  although  this  was  rather  more  charitable 
and  by  way  of  exoneration  than  such  analyses 
usually  are.  The  furnace  was  acting  badly  and 
the  house  was  not  properly  warmed.  The  day 
had  been  an  exceedingly  good  one  for  him,  but 
to  my  surprise  he  was  very  cross  and  unreason- 
able for  a  few  minutes  while  undressing.  When 
finally  buttoned  into  his  thick  little  pajamas,  he 
stood  still  by  the  register  and  said :  "What  makes 
little  boys  cross,  I  wonder?  What  made  me  cross 
then?  Do  you  s'pose  it  was  'cause  I  was  cold? 
What  else  makes  people  cross?  I  fink  it's  being 
cold  or  sick  or  hungry  or  tired." 

So  we  had  to  have  a  talk  about  crossness,  all 
cuddled  up  together  in  a  blanket  shawl,  while  my 
dinner  dishes  stood  untouched  upon  the  table  and 
the  clock  marked  off  the  minutes  past  his  bed- 
time. I  find  that  we  come  especially  near  to  each 
other  at  bedtime,  and  besides,  this  was  a  chance 
to  utilize  that  "wonder-power"  which  makes  the 
child's  mind  so  receptive  to  new  ideas.  A  little 
lost  sleep  may  be  easily  made  up,  but  opportuni- 
ties seldom  return. 

With  question  and  answer  and  occasional  kiss, 
we  reasoned  it  all  out  to  our  own  satisfaction. 


1 72  Note-Book  of 

We  decided  that  people  were  much  more  likely  to 
be  cross  when  cold  or  sick  or  hungry  or  tired,  and 
that  others  should  be  more  patient  with  them 
then.  But  that  being  cold  or  sick  or  hungry  or 
tired  did  n't  make  it  really  right  to  be  cross.  It 
was  only  a  reason  for  trying  harder  not  to  be  so. 
We  found  that  if  mothers  let  themselves  be  cross 
whenever  they  felt  badly,  boys  would  have  a  hard 
time.  We  found,  too,  that  if  boys  could  n't  be 
tired  without  being  cross,  they  should  stop  playing 
so  hard.  And  then  the  funny  little  lad  was  tucked 
snugly  into  bed,  at  peace  with  all  the  world,  and 
soon  forgot  the  trials  and  temptations  of  life. 

What  a  joke  he  had  at  my  expense  to-night ! 
When  he  stands  up  for  his  good-night  hug  and 
kiss,  I  always  say:  "This  has  been  a  good  day, 
dear,"  if  the  circumstances  warrant  it.  When  the 
day  has  been  a  very  naughty  one,  nothing  is  said, 
but  he  shows  his  consciousness  of  it  by  a  sad  look 
after  the  kiss,  so  sad  that  I  sometimes  answer  the 
unspoken  thought  by  saying:  "You  will  have  a 
chance  to  make  to-morrow  better,  you  know." 

When  the  day  has  been  marred  by  only  trivial 
naughtiness,  he  usually  introduces  the  subject  by 
saying:  "Good  day,  Mother?  All  busseppin  [but 
excepting] — "  and  waits  for  me  to  mention  the 
exceptions,  on  which  he  comments  with  the 
greatest  freedom,  quite  as  though  another  were 
the  culprit. 

To-night  I  was  rather  preoccupied  when  I  said, 


An  Adopted  Mother  173 

"This  has  been  a  very  good  day,  dear,  and  you 
have  been  a  comfort  to  me."  He  drew  back 
most  soberly  and  said:  "Busseppin  one  time. 
You  know  !  "  I  could  recall  no  naughtiness  and 
said  as  much. 

"Fink  some  more,  Mother,"  said  he. 

I  thought  and  could  recall  all  of  the  day  save 
the  breakfast  hour,  so  I  very  foolishly  answered : 
4 '  Excepting  breakfast-time,  was  n't  it  ?  That  was 
not  very  bad. 

May  I  ever  remember  the  results  of  my  du- 
plicity. Like  a  flash  came  the  laughter  and  the 
triumphant  reply:  "O  Mother!  To-day  there 
was  n't  any  busseppin!  It  was  all  good,  just  as 
good  as  could  be.  Joke  on  you !  " 

December  loth,  1902. — I  have  the  queerest  feel- 
ing of  being  on  probation  while  Stanley  is  making 
his  exhaustive  study  of  mothers  in  general  and 
his  own  in  particular.  I  never  had  quite  this  feel- 
ing before,  although  I  have  probably  been  watched 
just  as  critically  and  much  more  intelligently.  I 
suppose  Ernest  used  to  study  me  in  some  such 
way  before  he  seriously  considered  inviting  me  to 
become  Mrs.  Ernest  (after  that  idea  had  him  in 
its  possession,  he  was  presumably  less  analytical). 
But  a  busy  young  woman  has  no  time  for  self- 
consciousness,  and  then  he  did  not  tell  me  of  his 
observations  and  conclusions  as  he  made  them. 
Stanley  does. 


174  Note-Book  of 

He  was  visiting  with  me  in  the  kitchen  to-night 
while  I  was  preparing  dinner,  asking  me  innumer- 
able questions  and  making  such  quaint  comments 
on  the  events  of  the  day  that  the  fun  of  it  kept 
striking  me  afresh,  even  when  I  had  almost  more 
work  on  hand  than  I  could  manage.  A  sense  of 
humor  combines  beautifully  with  housework. 

Then  I  became  aware  of  his  especial  scrutiny. 
"I  fink/'  said  he,  ''that  you  are  the  funniest 
mother  in  the  world  —  you  laugh  so  much.  Do 
you  know  what  Harry's  mother  does?  He  helps 
her  and  every  fing,  but  she  is  cross  just  the  same, 
because  she  does  so  much  work,  and  the  Sey- 
mours' mother  is  just  horrid." 

"Well,  you  know  what  kind  of  boys  she  has. 
Bad  boys  make  cross  mothers  and  good  boys 
make  happy  mothers." 

"But  Harry's  mother  is  cross  when  she  works. 
And  they  don't  any  of  them  laugh  like  you.  I 
fink  that  good  mothers  make  good  boys.  Don't 
you  see?  You  are  a  good  mother  and  I  am  a  good 
boy." 


December  ijtkj  1902.  —  What  a  blessed  thing  it 
is  to  understand  the  magic  of  make-believe.  I 
learned  it  long  ago,  and  now  my  little  boy  is  find- 
ing the  way  to  that  happy  realm  where  the  sun 
can  always  shine  and  life  is  never  dull.  I  hope 
he  may  never  forget  it.  Surely  it  is  wise  to  keep 
our  hold  on  some  of  the  fancifulness  of  childhood. 


An  Adopted  Mother  175 

My  mother  has  never  quite  comprehended  how 
so  exceedingly  practical  a  person  as  I  can  find 
comfort  or  diversion  in  pretence,  but  has  at  last 
come  to  acknowledge  that  since  I  find  happiness 
in  it,  the  absurdity  does  not  matter.  I  remember 
how  she  laughed  about  the  way  in  which  I  tided 
over  my  Chicago  measles.  I  say  my  Chicago 
measles,  because  I  cannot  break  myself  of  the 
habit  of  having  the  measles  every  eight  or  nine 
years.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  such  a  pen- 
chant for  contagious  diseases,  and  measles  of  one 
nationality  or  another  seems  to  be  my  pathologi- 
cal specialty. 

Now  I  maintain  that  when  one  is  quarantined 
in  a  boarding-house  hall  bedroom,  holding  only 
keyhole  communication  with  one's  fellow-citizens, 
it  is  infinitely  wiser  to  live  a  life  of  happy  fancies 
than  to  lounge  helpless  on  one's  couch  and  rebel 
at  fate.  My  days  were  most  systematic.  After 
a  leisurely  breakfast  alone,  I  put  my  room  in  ex- 
quisite order,  then  I  had  my  little  quiet  hour. 
After  that  a  brisk  walk  to  and  fro,  with  wraps 
on  and  a  driblet  of  fresh  air  coming  in  from  the 
screened  window. 

Next  came  mnemonics,  and  it  was  surprising  to 
see  what  a  number  of  fine  poems  I  could  recall 
word  for  word.  Then  I  put  literature  aside  for 
theoretical  sewing  and  carefully  planned  the  de- 
tails of  making  over  and  supplementing  my  modest 
wardrobe.  Some  of  these  plans  I  jotted  down 


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with  closed  eyes,  so  that  they  might  be  ready  for 
future  reference.  Then  I  lay  down  for  a  rest, 
made  a  fresh  toilet  for  luncheon,  ate  what  the 
maid  brought  to  me,  took  another  walk  and  visited 
several  of  my  friends,  in  the  spirit. 

Such  delightful  conversations  as  we  had  on  all 
sorts  of  topics  !  Only  it  was  I  who  said  all  the 
bright  things  in  these  talks,  whereas  in  real  inter- 
course it  was  more  frequently  the  other  way. 
Next,  perhaps,  would  be  the  planning  of  original 
stories,  nearly  all  of  which  have  since  been  written 
out  and  published.  Another  rest,  and  by  that 
time  I  had  to  dress  hurriedly  for  dinner,  which 
was  always  the  event  of  the  day,  for  then  I  had 
large  parties  of  friends  to  dine  with  me,  repre- 
sented by  their  photographs.  No  shirking  of 
toilet  details  for  such  occasions  as  these  !  Every 
lock  of  hair  must  lie  in  its  place,  and  if  my  face 
was  a  trifle  too  rosy,  why  should  it  not  be  with  so 
much  excitement? 

They  were  really  happy  and  contented  days. 
They  did  not  seem  particularly  long,  and  what  a 
lot  of  thinking  I  did  !  I  might  almost  have  sus- 
pended cerebration  for  the  next  twelvemonth  on 
the  strength  of  it. 

But  I  drift  sadly  from  my  purpose  of  recording 
Stanley's  development  and  significant  remarks. 
To-night  when  he  was  very  tired  and  I  busy  get- 
ting the  dinner,  he  fretted  and  fussed  for  lack  of 
diversion  until  I  suggested  a  game  of  supposing. 


An  Adopted  Mother  177 

We  took  turns  in  suggesting  the  conditions. 
"S'posing,"  said  he,  "we  had  n't  any  house  at 
all,  and  right  in  winter." 

"What  would  you  do?" 

1 '  I  would  go  right  to  Dr.  Darrow  [a  great  friend 
of  his]  and  ask  him  where  I  could  have  a  house." 

"And  what  would  he  say? " 

"He  'd  say— 'Well,  there  is  the  Woodward 
house' ;  and  I  'd  say,  'Well,  I  might  try  it. '  Then 
after  I  'd  tried  it,  if  I  liked  it,  you  know,  I  'd  pay 
him  some  money  and  he  'd  let  me  stay." 

Oh,  we  had  a  lovely  time  supposing,  and  such 
experiments  help  me  comprehend  the  limitations 
and  misconceptions  of  the  child's  mind. 

Stanley  sometimes  utilizes  this  power  of  imagin- 
ation in  highly  original  fashion.  I  remember  one 
sweltering  day  last  summer,  before  we  went  north, 
when  he  and  Anita  found  their  regular  games 
"too  hot  and  sweaty,"  so  sat  down  on  the  back 
steps  and  played  that  they  were  in  the  house  and 
the  house  was  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  cistern. 
For  about  twenty  minutes  they  talked  of  swim- 
ming around  from  one  room  to  another  and  how 
cold  and  wet  it  was,  until  at  last  I  saw  Stanley 
rise  with  a  veritable  shiver  and  heard  him  say, 
"Now  let  's  run  around  a  little  while  and  get 
warm.', 

Occasionally,  though,  he  encounters  difficulties, 
as  he  did  when  visiting  on  the  cottage  porch  with 
his  grandmother.  She  had  told  him  about  calling 


1  78  Note-Book  of 

on  a  friend  and  being  followed  home  by  two  tiny 
kittens,  who  were  in  turn  chased  by  a  dog,  and 
finally  spent  the  night  cuddled  together  on  the 
limb  of  a  tree.  This,  with  the  details  of  their 
rescue  by  grandfather  the  next  morning,  made 
a  very  thrilling  story. 

This  time  he  wanted  to  dramatize  it,  saying: 
"Now,  Grandmother,  you  be  the  dog  and  I  will 
be  the  kitties." 

To  which  grandmother  replied  :  "How  can  you 
be  two  kitties?  Perhaps  one  will  want  to  stay  on 
the  tree  and  the  other  to  run  on  the  walk." 

"Well,"  said  Stanley  slowly  and  winking  with 
great  deliberation,  "no  —  say  —  I  will  be  half  a 
kitty  and,  no  —  er  —  er  —  half  of  me  will  be  a  kitty 
and  —  no,  I  will  be  all  of  one  kitty  and  —  well, 
never  mind,  let  's  go  on  playing." 


December  isth,  1902.  —  The  little  lad  is  just 
tucked  in  and  I  am  writing  in  his  room.  It  would 
have  taken  a  harder  heart  than  mine  to  resist  his 
bedtime  appeal. 

"Which  do  you  fink  is  the  tiredest  of  us  to- 
night?" he  said.  "I  know  I  am.  Do  you  fink 
that  if  you  were  I,  you  would  let  your  mother  go 
out  into  the  kitchen  to  wash  her  dishes?  You 
know  you  'd  be  just  a  very  tired  little  boy  then. 
—  O  Mother,  I  wish  you  were  my  big  brother! 
We  'd  have  such  sweet  times  together,  and  then 
we  'd  have  another  mother  just  like  you." 


An  Adopted  Mother  179 

December  ifth,  1902. — Stanley  had  another  long 
crying  spell  for  his  brother  last  night,  and  Ernest 
has  had  me  write  to  the  Superintendent  of  the 
School  to  see  if  Sidney  is  still  there,  and  if  so  to 
hold  him  until  we  have  had  time  to  decide  de- 
liberately whether  we  can  take  him.  If  we  do,  it 
will  mean  giving  up  the  little  girl  whom  we  had 
hoped  to  take,  and  growing  old  without  a  daughter 
in  the  home.  It  seems  strange  that  Stanley's 
longing  does  not  lessen  at  all  with  the  passage  of 
time. 

December  i8th,  1902. — I  have  been  thinking  to- 
day how  much  the  early  home  influences  have  to 
do  with  a  boy's  estimate  of  women,  and  how 
largely  a  wife's  position  in  the  home  depends 
upon  the  way  in  which  her  father-in-law  used  to 
treat  her  mother-in-law  before  his  children.  It 
depends  much,  I  know,  upon  her  own  attitude  in 
the  early  days  of  marriage,  but  most  upon  influ- 
ences which  may  have  been  at  work  before  she 
was  born. 

For  this  reason  I  am  certain  that  our  boy  will 
be  a  good  husband  for  some  lucky  girl  by  and  by. 
He  is  devoted  to  me  now,  and  has  decided  views 
on  the  duty  of  men  and  boys  to  care  for  women 
and  girls.  It  does  not  strike  him  as  incongruous 
when,  after  I  have  drawn  him  home  on  his  sled, 
he  begs  me  to  stand  still  while  he  puts  it  away, 
in  order  that  he  may  help  me  up  slippery  steps. 


i8o  Note-Book  of 

When  we  walk  together  in  the  rain  he  is  always 
selecting  "the  carefullest  side  of  the  puddles  "  for 
me ;  he  sternly  orders  away  all  dogs  which  come 
toward  me  and  even  changes  sides  at  the  sight  of 
a  stub  on  the  walk,  in  order  that  I  "need  n't  step 
on  the  cigarry  side." 

I  suppose  he  will  have  to  pass  through  that 
period  in  which  all  boys  despise  girls,  but  now  he 
is  very  susceptible  to  feminine  charms.  We  had 
another  talk  about  girls  this  noon.  "Mother," 
said  he,  "is  it  all  right  to  kiss  girls?" 

"Yes,  until  you  get  to  be  a  big  boy." 

"Well,  I  wonder  why  the  boys  keep  saying  that 
it  is  n't.  They  laugh  at  me." 

"It  is  all  right,  Stanley,  but  then,  you  don't 
have  to  kiss  them  unless  you  want  to,  you  know." 

"Why,  that  is  so,"  said  he,  looking  greatly  re- 
lieved. "You  don't  reelly  have  to,  do  you?" 

And  now  I  wonder  if  the  small  girls  have  been 
making  love  to  him. 

December  26th,  1902. — If  people  find  the  simple 
joyousness  of  Christmas  becoming  a  thing  of  the 
past,  it  can  be  remedied  by  adopting  a  child  who 
has  had  a  hard  time,  and  reviving  all  the  fun  and 
frolic  of  the  day.  Ever  since  our  marriage  Ernest 
and  I  have  sent  out  Christmas  baskets  to  those 
who  were  having  a  hard  time,  and  I  have  made 
at  least  one  little  girl  glad  with  a  new  doll ;  still, 
that  sort  of  giving  at  long  range  does  not  make 


An  Adopted  Mother  181 

the  day  joyous  at  home.  It  had  been  a  sad  re- 
minder of  those  who  are  dead  or  far  away,  and 
no  amount  of  holly  or  ground  pine  has  ever  im- 
parted the  desired  feeling  of  festivity.  We  have 
had  guests,  too,  delightful  people,  but  grown  up. 

So  it  is  not  strange  that  we  made  great  prepara- 
tions for  this  year.  Stanley  had  only  a  slender 
supply  of  toys  and  we  delayed  replenishing  it. 
We  talked  much  of  the  coming  holiday  and  of 
Santa  Claus,  although  he  understood  very  well 
that  the  dear  old  saint  was  no  more  real  than  the 
sandman  and  the  fairies.  Still,  Stanley  did  not 
sparkle  and  caper  with  delight  as  most  children 
do  under  such  circumstances.  I  could  not  think 
what  was  the  matter  until  he  came  to  me  one 
morning  with  an  anxious  face,  saying:  "Mother^ 
do  you  really  fink  I  will  have  a  present?  You 
know  I  never  had  a  Christmas  present  in  my 
whole  life." 

Those  misgivings  were  settled  at  once,  and 
after  that  there  was  no  lack  of  enthusiasm.  He 
was  allowed  to  dictate  a  letter  to  Santa  Claus 
which  was  pinned  up  in  the  sitting-room.  His 
petition  was  very  modest,  however.  I  objected 
to  letting  him  attend  the  Christmas  Eve  festivities 
at  the  church,  thinking  that  the  sleep  would  be 
better  for  him,  but  I  was  short-sighted  enough  to 
say  this  beforehand,  and  my  friends  made  me  feel 
the  weight  of  public  opinion  so  crushingly  that  I 
yielded — foolishly,  I  am  sure. 


1 82  Note-Book  of 

We  spent  the  afternoon  before  in  doing  Stan- 
ley's shopping,  he  having  earned  some  nineteen 
cents  for  the  purpose.  A  rather  wavy  hand  mirror 
was  bought  for  his  father,  another  trifle  for  me, 
and  pink  pop-corn  balls  for  the  whole  family  circle. 
These  were  wrapped,  inscribed,  and  hidden  with 
great  secrecy. 

The  evening  was  about  what  one  may  expect  in 
any  Sunday-school.  Stanley  distinguished  him- 
self by  standing  on  a  seat  and  calling  out  to  Santa 
Glaus,  who  was  taking  down  a  pop-gun:  "Give 
that  to  me,  please.  That  is  what  I  want."  But 
when  it  was  handed  to  another  and  he  was  given 
a  pretty  mug  for  his  milk,  he  was  quite  contented. 
"I  fought  at  first,"  he  explained,  "that  I  would 
rather  have  the  gun,  but  the  more  I  fought 
about  it  the  more  I  fought  I  would  rather  have 
the  cup." 

When  we  were  leaving  he  heard  somebody  say 
that  it  was  half-past  eight.  "Why,  Mother !  "  he 
said.  "What  shall  we  do?  Did  n't  you  hear  the 
clock  strike  seven?"  So  I  was  held  to  account 
by  the  very  one  for  whom  I  had  suspended  the 
bedtime  rule. 

Christmas  morning  dawned  fair  and  white,  with 
a  beautiful  light  snow  falling.  The  gifts  were  by 
the  fireplace  in  the  sitting-room.  Ernest  tiptoed 
around  for  fear  of  awakening  Stanley  too  soon. 
I  think  he  seriously  considered  locking  us  both 
into  our  side  of  the  house  before  he  went  down 


An  Adopted  Mother  183 

to  look  after  the  furnace.  I  know  that  when  he 
was  half-way  down  the  cellar  stairs  he  returned  to 
say:  "Now,  Eleanor,  don't  on  any  account  let 
Stanley  see  his  stocking  before  I  come  back.  I 
would  not  miss  the  fun  for  a  hundred  dollars — 
not  for  a  hundred  dollars." 

With  the  first  rumble  of  coal  below  stairs  there 
was  a  squeal  and  a  scramble  in  the  little  folding- 
bed,  and  a  sleepy  boy  tumbled  out,  fumbling  with 
awkward  fingers  at  the  buttons  of  his  pajamas. 
"Need  n't  tell  me  to  hurry  this  morning,"  he 
said.  "Wish  I  could  dress  by  'lectricity."  When 
Ernest  came  up  he  called  out :  ' '  Morning,  Father ! 
Merry  Christmas!  I  '11  hug  you  by  and  by. 
Can't  stop  now!"  Catching  a  glimpse  of  the 
yard  outside,  where  our  tall  firs  were  wearing 
their  cloaks  of  ermine,  he  said:  "Oh,  don't  you 
fink  God  is  nice  to  let  it  snow  for  Christmas? " 

Ernest  led  into  the  sitting-room  and  set  the 
head  of  a  toy  man  wagging  as  he  peeped  out  of 
the  top  of  Stanley's  stocking.  ' '  Oo-ee ! ' '  was  the 
first  exclamation.  "Does  n't  that  man  look 
pretty  wiggling  his  head  up  there?  Fix  him 
again,  Father. — Now,  Little  Man,  do  you  like 
bad  boys?  See  him  nod!  Oh,  there  is  somebody 
who  likes  bad  boys. — Here  are  some  nuts !  You 
take  them,  Mother.  You  may  have  them  for 
breakfast. — Why-ee !  Look  at  my  letter  to  Santa 
Claus  and  see  if  I  said  to  bring  that  gas-ball. 
What  do  you  fink?  He  brought  me  something 


1 84  Note-Book  of 

I  did  n't  even  ask  for! — Here  is  some  candy! — 
I  '11  'vide  it  even  with  all  of  us.  A  pop-corn  ball 
for  me !  Now  I  can  send  this  to  Grandfather  and 
Grandmother.  You  know  I  could  n't  buy  enough 
for  them." 

A  toy  horn  was  used  at  once  for  playing  Amer- 
ica, but,  unfortunately,  the  lips  were  applied  to 
the  wrong  end.  A  volume  of  Father  Goose  was 
rapturously  greeted.  "See,  Mother,"  he  said, 
"this  book  will  tell  us  all  about  the  goose  [the 
ruling  passion  for  natural  history  again]." 

A  beautiful  tassel-cap  was  donned  at  once. 
"When  I  get  warm  working,"  he  said,  "I  can 
push  it  back,  so !  It  keeps  my  hair  good  and 
warm."  Other  things  were  worn,  pocketed,  or 
held  until  he  looked  like  Cupid  posing  as  Santa 
Glaus,  but  a  toy  railroad  was  his  chief  delight. 
"My  little  luckymotive  is  a  dandy  little  hustler," 
he  said.  "Look  at  him  now!  Doesn't  he  fink 
he  is  smart  ? ' ' 

At  three  o'clock  nine  boys  and  a  tiny  girl  came 
to  our  Christmas  party,  Anita  being  now  a  resi- 
dent of  another  town.  The  girl  is  a  dear  little 
mouse  who  would  never  stand  up  for  her  own 
rights,  and  I  made  some  suggestions  to  the  boys 
who  arrived  ahead  of  her.  As  a  result  she  was 
the  queen  of  the  occasion.  While  they  were  all 
watching  the  mechanical  railway  in  the  parlor, 
the  boys  lying  flat  in  an  admiring  circle  and  the 
small  Mary  sitting  Turk-fashion  among  them, 


An  Adopted  Mother  185 

Ernest  and  I  cleared  the  dining-room  and  added 
the  finishing  touches  to  a  treeful  of  gifts.  Some 
of  our  guests  were  children  who  had  but  little  at 
home,  and  we  had  taken  pains  to  find  out  their 
hearts'  desires.  The  secret  of  the  tree  had  leaked 
out,  as  such  blissful  secrets  are  apt  to,  and  al- 
though there  was  a  polite  self-restraint  on  the 
part  of  our  guests,  it  all  vanished  when  I  entered 
the  sitting-room  and  said  :  ' '  Children,  do  you  think 
you  could  manage  to  leave  the  railway  for  a  few 
minutes? " 

As  if  moved  by  one  spring  the  ten  boys  were 
on  their  feet.  "  You  bet,"  was  the  emphatic  re- 
ply from  their  spokesman,  and  then  the  greatest 
fun  began.  The  little  Mary  had  no  sled,  and 
when  the  boys  cried,  "Give  Mary  her  present 
first,"  and  Stanley  was  allowed  to  carry  a  fine 
red  one  to  her,  enthusiasm  knew  no  bounds. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it,  Mary?" 
they  asked. 

"KEEP  IT,"  she  said,  sitting  down  on  it  at 
once  and  clutching  it  with  both  tiny  hands. 
Even  when  candy,  an  orange,  and  a  pop-corn 
ball  were  piled  in  her  lap,  she  let  them  slide  to 
the  floor  rather  than  relax  her  hold.  We  after- 
ward found  that  she  had  been  allowed  to  hope  for 
one  from  Santa  Glaus,  but  that  her  father's  illness 
had  so  reduced  the  family  revenue  as  to  disap- 
point her  and  her  parents  as  well,  for  they  are  de- 
voted to  her.  She  thought  it  Heaven-sent  indeed. 


1 86  Note-Book  of 

The  boys  had  skates,  knives,  or  something 
equally  popular;  still,  Mary's  sled  was  the  great 
event.  When  the  party  was  over  they  formed  a 
guard  of  honor  and  drew  her  home  upon  it  with 
much  capering  and  shouting.  Stanley  went  direct- 
ly to  bed,  although  it  was  not  yet  six.  It  struck 
him  as  perfectly  just  when  I  said  he  should  make 
up  the  sleep  lost  the  night  before.  "Well,"  he 
said,  "I  shall  have  to  fink  about  my  presents 
when  I  go  to  bed.  I  don't  b'leeve  I  '11  have 
time  to  go  to  sleep."  However,  he  did.  In 
fact,  he  had  time  to  sleep  thirteen  hours  and  a 
half  before  awakening. 

January  ist,  1903. — This  has  been  a  tearful 
day  in  our  home.  The  tiny  Woodward  baby, 
whose  coming  made  us  so  glad  a  few  weeks  since, 
died  last  night,  and  it  was  a  great  shock  to  us  all. 
She  had  seemed  quite  strong.  I  could  not  keep 
the  tears  back;  the  mother  is  very  dear  to  me, 
and  I  know  so  well  what  she  is  suffering.  Stan- 
ley mingled  his  tears  with  mine  and  sobbed  until 
I  managed  to  regain  my  self-control  for  his  sake. 
It  has  started  again  the  endless  questions  concern- 
ing babies  and  heaven. 

"Mother,  was  that  little  new  baby  scared  when 
she  got  here?  Is  she  an  angel  now?  Is  she  a 
baby  angel?  Will  she  ever  be  a  grown-up  angel? 
Why  did  she  have  to  go  back  to  heaven  so 
soon? — Oh,  but  I  will  take  the  very  best  care  of 


An  Adopted  Mother  187 

you.  I  won't  let  God  get  you. — Do  you  know 
what  I  fink?  I  fink  that  little  girl  babies  always 
die  and  little  boy  babies  don't.  You  see  that 
is  two  little  girl  babies  what  we  know  that  has 
died.  But  I  was  a  boy  baby  and  I  lived.  It  's 
because  little  girl  babies  are  n't  strong  enough, 
you  see. 

"If  I  died  and  God  sent  angels  for  me,  would 
they  be  reelly  angels? — I  don't  quite  under- 
stand about  angels. — When  God  gets  little  boys 
up  to  heaven  He  makes  angels  out  of  them. 
How  big  does  He  make  them?  I  tell  you  what, 
Mother,  if  He  let  me  fly  outside  and  I  lit  down 
near  the  School,  I  bet  some  of  the  boys  would 
catch  me. — Does  He  let  His  angels  fly  outside 
sometimes?  If  He  does,  I  know  what  I  would 
do — I  'd  fly  right  down  to  where  you  are  and  see 
you.  I  'd  reelly  rather  play  with  you  than  stay 
up  there,  you  know." 

January  3rd,  1903. — I  have  been  home  from  the 
meeting  of  our  State  Teachers'  Association  for 
two  days  now,  having  gone  with  my  conscience  in 
a  very  doubtful  condition  and  returned  with  it 
righted.  It  seemed  wrong  to  exile  my  little  lad 
to  another  home,  where  he  would  have  to  sleep 
with  a  playmate  and  live  on  strange  fare,  in  order 
that  I  need  not  miss  attending  the  sessions  of  two 
days  and  the  reunion  with  old  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances from  all  over  the  State.  However,  it 


1 88  Note-Book  of 

has  changed  me  from  a  maid-of-all-work  to  a 
woman  who  actually  enjoys  thinking  again.  It 
has  given  me  some  new  ideas  on  child-training, 
and  has  made  me  much  better  informed  on  the 
relation  of  the  public  to  the  schools,  various 
questions  of  public  interest  having  been  discussed. 
Ernest  was  right  when  he  insisted  that  having 
Stanley  is  a  reason  for  my  continued  attendance  at 
these  meetings,  rather  than  for  my  giving  them  up. 

I  have  had  a  queer  demonstration  of  the  im- 
portance of  sleep  to  a  growing  child.  I  have  been 
so  punctual  in  having  Stanley  go  to  bed  on  the 
stroke  of  seven  that  nothing  else  ever  occurs  to 
him  as  possible  when  I  am  in  control.  He  no 
more  thinks  of  teasing  to  remain  up,  even  when 
we  have  guests,  than  he  would  think  of  crying  for 
caviare.  And  I  never  awaken  him  until  half-past 
six. 

The  result  is  that  he  seldom  has  less  than  eleven 
hours  of  sound  sleep  and  occasionally  he  has  much 
more.  While  I  was  away  he  went  to  bed  at  eight 
and  arose  before  six  for  two  days.  On  the  first 
day  after  my  return  he  was  so  irritable  that  I  could 
hardly  get  along  with  him,  complained  of  being 
too  tired  to  play,  and  wanted  to  retire  immedi- 
ately after  our  six-o'clock  dinner. 

That  night  he  slept,  without  waking,  for  more 
than  thirteen  hours,  and  to-day  he  has  been  a 
perfect  little  sunbeam,  volunteering  to  "do  all  the 
work  busseppin  the  high-up  fings,"  and  standing 


An  Adopted  Mother  189 

his  accidents  and  disappointments  without  a 
whimper. 

Because  it  is  germane  to  the  subject  and  I  fear 
to  lose  the  slip  on  which  I  have  the  statistics,  I 
will  write  down  here  for  reference  the  results  of 
the  work  of  a  Swedish  government  committee  ap- 
pointed to  ascertain  how  many  hours  children  of 
different  ages  should  sleep  in  order  to  study 
properly. 

According  to  the  report  forwarded  to  the  Min- 
ister of  Education,  children  of  four  should  sleep 
twelve  hours ;  children  of  seven,  eleven  hours ; 
children  from  twelve  to  fourteen,  from  nine  to  ten 
hours.  I  mean  to  hold  Stanley  to  this  schedule, 
neighbors  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  He 
will  not  think  it  a  hardship  if  he  knows  nothing 
different.  Indeed,  at  present  he  has  a  great  pride 
in  his  early  bedtime.  Only  a  few  days  since, 
when  one  of  the  other  boys  was  inclined  to  laugh 
at  him  for  going  off  at  seven,  he  answered  with 
dignity :  "  'Course  I  go  to  bed  at  seven,  and  you'd 
better  go  then  too.  Does  n't  your  mother  want 
you  to  grow? " 

I  have  told  Stanley  that  night  is  the  time  for 
growing,  and  that  the  boys  who  sleep  the  most 
hours  are  the  strongest,  run  the  fastest,  throw  the 
farthest,  and  study  the  best.  I  have  told  him 
how  plants  do  their  growing  by  night  and  absorb 
their  chlorophyll  by  day,  and  he  watches  a  couple 
of  fine  asparagus  plants  of  mine  with  great  interest 


190  Note-Book  of 

to  see  this  verified.  When  there  are  new  shoots 
he  looks  at  them  every  morning,  and  these  grow 
so  rapidly  that  a  gain  of  several  inches  overnight 
is  nothing  unusual.  He  will  have  nothing  to  un- 
learn, if  I  use  facts  instead  of  fancies  in  sending 
him  early  to  bed.  And  as  far  as  I  can  see,  what 
might  be  called  the  asparagus  method  is  quite  as 
efficacious  as  the  bugaboo  scheme  of  scaring 
children  off  to  sleep. 

January  6th,  1903.  —This  has  been  one  of  those 
charming  winter  days  which  delight  small  boys 
and  produce  in  the  breasts  of  healthy  and  normal 
ones  an  overflowing  happiness.  Stanley  has  been 
at  his  best  all  day.  It  began  in  the  morning 
when  he  knelt  beside  me  during  our  family  prayers. 
Since  he  came  to  live  with  us,  I  make  the 
prayer,  it  being  easy  for  me  to  use  words  which 
children  understand.  I  often  hear  him  explaining 
some  detail  to  the  Lord  in  a  whisper  as  he  nestles 
beside  me,  and  this  morning  he  prompted  me 
quite  audibly.  "Fank  Him  about  the  snow,"  he 
said.  "Ice  too.  And  remember  the  hills,  'cause 
they  are  such  fun." 

Everything  has  been  just  right.  When  he  raced 
with  the  other  boys  he  was  always  sure  that  he 
had  "beaten  them  to  smittereens,"  and  he  has 
not  only  been  happy  but  extremely  conscious  of 
the  fact.  "I  fink  Saturday  is  the  very  best 
squeally  day,"  he  said.  "Sunday  is  the  day  to 


An  Adopted  Mother 

do  your  quiet.  And  school  is  the  best  place  to 
keep  still  'cept  when  the  teacher  tells  you  to  talk. 
—Mother.  I  never  fought  before  why  they  call 
Saturday  a  hollerday,  but  that  's  it,  is  n't  it? 
'Cause  then  you  can  holler  most." 

Evidently  his  own  surpassing  goodness  has  been 
a  source  of  some  amazement  to  him,  for  to-night 
when  he  was  ready  for  bed  he  said:   "Mother, 
why  do  you  s'pose  I  have  been  so  good  to-day?  " 
"Because  God  helped  make  you  so,  dear." 
"No!  [indignantly]  He  never  did  a  fing  to  me. 
—Did  He  know  I  was  going  to  be  good  before 
I  did?     He  must  have,  'cause  He  knows  every- 
fing." 

January  yth,  1903. — Concerning  the  force  of 
gravity  Stanley  and  I  have  had  many  conversa- 
tions. It  seems  such  a  delight  to  him  to  discover 
a  law  under  even  the  most  trivial  incidents  of 
every  day.  It  began  last  summer,  when  he  in- 
sisted on  knowing  why  the  ball  would  come  down 
again  each  time  that  he  threw  it  up.  Of  course 
there  was  much  to  it  which  I  could  not  attempt 
to  explain,  but  I  took  considerable  time  to  show 
him  how  universal  and  unfailing  the  force  of 
gravity  is.  I  got  laughed  at  for  my  pains  by  my 
summer  neighbors,  who  took  frequent  occasion  to 
ask  if  he  had  yet  mastered  the  nebular  hypothesis, 
or  congratulated  me  on  his  progress  in  perpetual 
motion. 


Note-Book  of 


I  thought  that,  as  long  as  he  evidently  found 
our  talks  on  such  subjects  interesting,  there  was 
no  harm  done,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  a  child 
who  came  to  realize  the  constancy  and  omnipres- 
ence of  the  force  of  gravity,  recognizing  in  it  a 
power  which  he  could  not  see  and  yet  could 
always  rely  upon,  would  find  it  easier  to  believe 
in  God  as  omnipresent  and  all-powerful,  although 
invisible  to  mortal  eye.  It  has  proved  so  with 
Stanley,  and  I  am  well  enough  pleased  with  the 
results  of  my  experiments  to  continue  them. 

Stanley  has  had  a  good  deal  of  fun  in  "trying 
to  fool  old  Force  of  Gravity,"  and  laughs  loudly 
when  he  always  finds  the  joke  at  his  expense,  but 
to-day  he  went  farther.  Shut  in  by  the  storm 
and  his  cold,  he  had  to  pass  his  first  school-day 
at  home.  With  no  playmates  available  and  a 
mother  tied  down  to  her  desk  for  the  afternoon, 
he  was  cast  on  his  own  resources.  It  suddenly 
struck  me  that  he  had  not  spoken  for  an  hour, 
and  I  investigated.  He  was  seated  on  the  floor 
with  the  elliptical  track  of  his  toy  railroad  in  his 
hands.  The  usual  rolling-stock  was  put  aside, 
and  on  the  track  he  had  a  large  glass  marble  with 
an  image  imbedded  in  it.  He  was  tilting  the 
track  carefully  first  one  way  and  then  another,  so 
that  the  marble  ran  quickly  around  it. 

After  showing  me  how  he  could  regulate  its 
speed  and  direction  without  touching  the  marble, 
he  said:  "You  see,  Mother,  old  Force  of  Gravity 


An  Adopted  Mother  193 

is  my  playmate  now.  Don't  you  fink  he  is  a 
pretty  good  playmate  for  a  little  boy?  He 
does  n't  have  to  go  home,  you  know,  and  he 
does  n't  get  mad,  like  the  other  boys  does. 
And  Mother!  If  another  sick  little  boy  wanted 
to  play  with  him  right  now,  he  could,  could  n't 
he?  And  he  'd  keep  right  on  playing  with  me, 
too." 

Stanley's  reasoning  appealed  to  me  all  the  more 
an  hour  later,  when  other  boys  came  in  and  let 
loose  the  energy  which  had  been  pent  up  in 
school,  and  when  his  nerves,  weakened  by  physi- 
cal discomfort,  made  him  petulant  and  irritable. 
It  struck  me  then  that  I  had  been,  quite  uncon- 
sciously, teaching  him  to  find  companionship  and 
diversion  among  the  forces  of  nature  which  "are 
pretty  good  playmates  for  little  boys." 

January  ijth,  1903. —  How  should  we  get 
through  these  stormy  days  of  enforced  confine- 
ment if  we  could  not  be  accomplishing  imaginary 
exploits  in  the  open?  For  a  large  part  of  the 
morning  Stanley  was  sharpening  his  two  wooden 
swords  to  make  them  ready  to  use  in  shooting 
bears.  He  dictated  a  letter  to  his  grandmother, 
in  which  he  told  how  many  he  expected  to  slay, 
and  he  had  a  great  time  deciding  how  to  distri- 
bute his  spoils  wisely,  talking  of  bears  about  as 
ordinary  sportsmen  would  mention  quail  or  wood- 
cock. He  was  intensely  practical  in  his  childishly 


194  Note-Book  of 

impractical  way,  for  he  even  asked,  "How  long 
do  you  fink  a  bear  would  last  us,  if  we  were  care- 
ful?" 

A  vivid  imagination  has  occasional  drawbacks 
as  well  as  advantages.  He  had  been  choo- 
chooing  around  as  a  locomotive  for  a  while  this 
afternoon,  when  he  came  to  me  to  help  him  with 
some  difficult  buttons.  I  thought  he  could  per- 
fectly well  help  himself,  but  how  could  I  refuse 
aid  when  he  said:  "Please  help  me.  You  will 
reelly  have  to  this  time.  I  can't  button  up  my 
own  fings  when  I  am  a  luckymotive,  don't  you 
see? " 

January  1 6th,  1903. — More  evidence  that  Stan- 
ley is  making  a  systematic  study  of  me.  I  sup- 
pose this  plan  would  hardly  occur  to  a  child  who 
had  always  had  a  mother,  and  the  same  one.  As 
a  rule,  parents  are  taken  for  granted  and  accepted 
in  the  sort  of  spirit  in  which  one  accepts  sky  over- 
head and  earth  underfoot.  At  least,  the  tendency 
to  analyze  and  compare  would  not  develop  in  the 
ordinary  child  until  a  much  later  period.  So  far 
Stanley's  conclusions  seem  to  be  quite  compli- 
mentary,— rather  more  so  than  I  am  conscious  of 
deserving, — but  there  may  come  a  day  when  he 
compares  me  with  a  really  superior  mother,  and 
then  where  shall  I  stand? 

When  I  was  helping  him  dress  this  morning,  he 
opened  the  conversation  by  saying:  "If  I  had  a 


An  Adopted  Mother  195 

very    bad    cold   you    would    make   me   stay   in, 
would  n't  you,  Mother?" 

"Yes,  during  such  weather  as  this." 

"Well,  the  Seymour  boys  have  very  bad  colds, 
and  they  go  every  place.  Their  mother  tries  and 
tries  to  make  them  stay  in,  and  they  won't." 

"How  does  she  try?  " 

"Oh,  she  whips  and  whips  them,  and  then 
they  kick  her.  Sometimes  they  swear.  Oh, 
but  their  mother  is  cross!  What  makes  her  so 
cross? " 

"Well,  dear,  you  know  she  has  six  little  chil- 
dren, and  works  very  hard.  Perhaps  she  is  so 
tired  that  she  cannot  help  it." 

This  seemed  to  satisfy  Stanley,  but  in  thinking 
it  over  after  he  had  gone  to  school  and  while  I 
was  washing  my  breakfast  dishes  (an  occupation 
which  gives  those  "opportunities  for  fructifying 
thought  "  which  men  say  women  so  seldom  take) 
it  occurred  to  me  that  while  I  had  undoubtedly 
told  the  truth  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Seymour's  irrit- 
ability, I  had  laid  the  emphasis  on  the  wrong 
factor  in  the  case.  The  natural  result  of  what  I 
had  said  would  be  to  make  Stanley  think  fatigue 
a  sufficient  excuse  for  ill-nature.  Yet  he  must 
learn  to  keep  sweet  under  such  difficulties.  That 
is  a  feature  of  the  Japanese  training  which  I  have 
always  admired,  their  insisting  that  both  children 
and  adults  must  be  bright-faced  and  cheerful 
under  all  circumstances.  It  is  Lovey  Mary's 


196  Note-Book  of 

philosophy  in  another  form.  "The  way  to  git 
cheerful  is  to  smile  when  you  feel  bad,  and  to 
think  about  somebody  else's  headache  when  yer 
own  is  most  bustin'." 

So  this  noon  I  introduced  the  subject  again. 
"I  have  been  thinking  about  Mrs.  Seymour,"  I 
said,  "and  I  can  tell  you  a  better  reason  for  her 
being  so  cross.  It  is  because  her  children  are 
naughty.  Don't  you  think  so?  When  children 
are  good,  mothers  are  not  cross  at  them,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  Mother,  I  reelly  am  sure  that  is  it,  and 
is  n't  it  too  bad?" 

"It  is  too  bad.  You  see  if  I  had  not  such  a 
good  little  boy  I  might  be  very  cross.  It  is  good 
husbands  who  help  make  good  wives,  and  good 
children  who  help  make  good  fathers  and  mothers. 

"Oh,  Mother,  Mother,  Mother,  you  are  just 
sweet !  You  are  the  very  sweetest  mother  in  the 
world !  I  have  had  two  sweet  mothers.  Only  I 
have  forgotten  the  one  I  had  before  I  went  to 
the  School." 

I  believe  that  this  is  a  good  place  to  write  down 
something  which  I  read  a  few  days  since  in  one  of 
Barrie's  books,  and  do  not  wish  to  have  slip  from 
my  memory,  because  it  says  so  beautifully  what 
we  have  all  felt  and  sometimes  try  to  express: 
"The  praise  that  comes  of  love  does  not  make  us 
vain,  but  humble  rather.  Knowing  what  we  are, 
the  pride  that  shines  in  our  mother's  eyes  as  she 


An  Adopted  Mother  197 

looks  at  us  is  about  the  most  pathetic  thing  a 
man  has  to  face,  but  he  would  be  a  devil  alto- 
gether if  it  did  not  burn  some  of  the  sin  out  of 
him." 


January  22nd,  ipoj.  —  We  had  an  informal 
little  dinner  party  last  night,  at  which  several  of 
Stanley's  particular  friends  were  present.  Of 
course,  since  I  am  without  a  housekeeper,  the 
small  boy  was  in  more  or  less  of  the  domestic 
secrets  and  was  so  keenly  interested  that  he  even 
brought  one  of  his  cronies  in  during  the  afternoon 
"to  smell  of  the  turkey"  and  be  dazzled  by  its 
proportions.  It  seemed  the  simplest  and  best 
thing  to  let  him  be  present  with  the  guests,  in- 
stead of  banishing  him  to  the  home  of  a  motherly 
woman  in  the  neighborhood,  who  willingly  invites 
him  over,  for  a  consideration,  and  lets  him  sleep 
with  her  own  hopeful. 

I  set  a  place  for  him  at  a  small  table  within 
arm's  length  of  my  own,  and  he  bore  himself  with 
dignity  and  propriety,  eating  a  much  modified 
meal  with  an  humble  and  contented  spirit,  and 
willingly  making  his  adieux  at  seven,  to  be  tucked 
into  bed  in  a  near-by  room  and  cuddle  down  with 
a  long-desired  boy  doll,  whose  advent  had  been 
carefully  timed  for  this  very  occasion.  I  do  not 
remember  giving  him  any  injunctions  as  to  man- 
ners, although  I  did  remind  him  that  it  was  to  be 
a  grown-up  party,  and  that  of  course  he  would 


198  Note-Book  of 

go  to  bed  at  the  usual  time,  even  if  it  were  not 
over. 

This  morning  his  eight-year-old  neighbor,  Ed- 
ward, was  in,  and  asked,  prompted  to  it  by  some 
chance  remark  of  Stanley's,  "Why,  was  you  in 
the  room  with  the  company  when  they  was 
eating? " 

"  'Course  I  was." 

"My!  Wasn't  you  scared,  though?  I  allus 
am.  When  we  go  away  to  eat,  or  folks  comes  to 
our  house  I  get  so  scared  that  I  just  can't  talk, 
and  I  can't  eat  much.  Lots  of  nice  things,  but 
they  kinder  stick!  " 

"Pooh!  What  's  there  to  be  scared  about? 
Just  ate  like  any  time,  only  sat  at  my  own  table." 

"My!  But  I  'd  'a'  been  awful  scared.  I  allus 
am." 

All  of  which  supports  in  a  wholly  unexpected 
way  my  contention  that  it  is  worse  than  folly,  it 
is  positive  cruelty,  to  cram  a  child  with  eleventh- 
hour  instructions  as  to  the  size  of  his  mouthfuls, 
the  desirability  of  keeping  his  knife  away  from 
his  lips,  the  proper  use  of  his  napkin,  the  im- 
propriety of  clamoring  for  food,  the  exceeding 
sinfulness  of  overeating,  et  cetera. 

But  how  natural  it  is  to  do  just  that  thing! 
And  how  often  I  have  to  pull  myself  up  on  the 
verge  of  exhortation !  It  is  such  a  time-honored 
custom,  and  in  this  matter  I  even  find  that  in  a 
certain  sense  my  enemies  are  those  of  my  own 


An  Adopted  Mother  199 

household.  So  often  Ernest,  when  we  three  are 
dining  alone,  will  check  Stanley  in  some  little  im- 
propriety with  the  warning:  "Just  think  how 
ashamed  you  would  be  if  you  should  do  that 
some  time  when  we  have  company  here." 

I  have  to  chink  in  hurriedly  with  a  supplemen- 
tary remark:  "And  it  would  n't  be  a  bit  worse 
than  doing  it  when  you  are  with  your  father  and 
mother.  You  love  us  better  than  you  do  our 
guests,  and  you  surely  wish  to  be  just  as  polite 
to  us.  Besides,  you  know  good  manners  are 
good  manners,  whether  anybody  sees  or  not." 

Sometimes  Stanley  continues  the  conversation 
in  the  best  of  feeling  by  saying,  "Yes,  and  just 
fink  how  ashamed  I  'd  be  of  bofe  of  you  if  you 
did  rings  what  you  had  n't  ought." 

That  seems  a  simple  and  natural  comment 
under  the  circumstances,  but  I  was  rather  shocked 
when  he  said  one  day :  '"Course  God  knows  when 
you  stuff  in  a  big  mouf-ful,  even  if  nobody  else 
catches  you,  and  you  'd  ought  to  be  ashamed  for 
Him."  Still,  why  is  n't  that  a  child's  version  of 
"eating  and  drinking  to  the  glory  of  God?" 

January  2/j.th^  ipoj. — I  am  almost  too  tired 
to  write  anything  in  my  note-book  to-night,  but 
cannot  let  pass  these  little  evidences  of  Stanley's 
perfect  devotion  and  loyalty  to  the  mother  he  has 
adopted.  He  was  so  tired  that  he  begged  to  go 
to  bed  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  dinner,  and 


200  Note-Book  of 

I  even  left  my  dessert  untouched  for  the  sake  of 
tucking  him  in.  Then  he  was  not  willing  that  I 
should  leave  him,  begging  me  to  stay  near  and 
touch  him  as  long  as  he  remained  awake.  "I  am 
so  vurry,  vurry,  vurry,  vurry  tired,  Mother,"  he 
said,  "and  so  sleepy  and  cold  that  I  can't  stand 
it  without  you.  I  'm  so  sorry,  but  I  cant  stand 
it.  Oh,  I  '11  just  have  to  give  up  everyfmg,  I  am 
so  tired!  [This  must  have  been  a  quotation.]  I 
need  a  million  mothers  to-night  to  pet  me  and 
love  me." 

"Why,  Stanley,  what  could  you  do  with  so 
many? " 

"I  'd  'vide  'em  up.  Eight  could  pet  me  and 
the  rest  do  the  work  in  the  kitchen.  No,  I  'd 
'vide  'em  the  other  way.  Eight  could  do  the 
work,  and  the  rest  could  pet  me." 

"And  where  would  you  have  me? " 

"Right  here,  of  course,  'cause  you  'd  be  the 
nicest,  you  know!" 

January  28th,  1903. — Years  ago,  before  I  was 
a  staid  married  woman  or  even  a  kindergartner, 
I  used  to  ask  my  small  neighbors  in  from  time  to 
time  to  play  dolls,  and  my  own  dear  "Helen 
Lorene  Gray,"  with  her  trunkful  of  clothes  and 
her  ancestral  bedstead,  was  always  the  belle  of  the 
occasion.  I  shall  never  forget  the  awe  with  which 
my  guests  listened  to  the  history  of  that  dainty 
bedstead,  made  after  the  model  of  a  by-gone  day, 


An  Adopted  Mother  201 

laced  with  bed-cord,  and  equipped  with  the  old- 
fashioned  flat  bolster  and  a  pieced  spread  with  a 
valance.  To  think  how  many  little  girls  in  my 
family  had  played  with  it  and  taken  good  care  of 
it,  so  that  it  still  looked  new,  made  a  great  im- 
pression, and  any  child  who  handled  it  roughly 
after  that  risked  becoming  a  social  outcast. 

Quite  as  interesting,  but  in  a  different  way,  was 
the  description  of  Helen  Lorene's  wardrobe,  for 
nearly  every  article  was  associated  with  some  ill- 
ness of  my  childhood.  Her  winter  cloak  was 
made  during  the  cold  weeks  when  I  was  shut  in 
after  having  scarlet  fever ;  her  old-fashioned  cir- 
cular with  hood  was  made  from  a  piece  of  my  dear 
grandmother's  dress  not  long  before  she  died ;  the 
dashing  hat  which  went  with  Helen's  spring  suit 
was  of  straw,  re-sewn  by  my  mother's  patient  fin- 
gers, to  divert  me  when  I  had  intermittent  fever 
and  had  been  good  and  quiet  through  a  lonely 
morning  in  bed ;  and  the  long  white  cock's  feather 
with  which  this  reward  of  virtue  was  trimmed 
had  been  pulled  from  the  tail  of  my  favorite 
rooster  in  an  encounter  with  a  barnyard  rival. 

I  recall  one  afternoon  when  I  had  a  new  guest 
— a  little  boy — who  had  been  invited  to  bring  his 
doll  along,  and  came  clutching  a  new  one  tightly 
and  disdainfully  with  one  hand.  I  suspected 
what  was  the  matter,  for  he  stood  apart  from  the 
girls,  looking  first  at  them  and  then  at  the  doll. 
At  last  he  came  to  a  decision.  "I  don't  care  if  I 


202  Note-Book  of 

are  a  boy,"  he  announced  loudly.  "I  am  going 
to  play  wiv  my  dollie  anyway."  And  he  did, 
having  the  happiest  afternoon  imaginable. 

I  believed,  even  then,  that  it  was  good  for  boys 
to  have  dolls,  but  how  little  I  dreamed  that  my 
dear  Helen  Lorene  would  ever  be  wielding  her 
wholesome  influence  over  my  boy !  She  is  about 
fourteen  inches  tall,  with  scanty  traces  of  her 
once  luxuriant  blonde  locks ;  the  wax  is  gone  in 
spots  from  her  chubby  face,  and  her  eyes  do  not 
bob  open  and  shut  with  their  old  engaging 
promptness.  She  has  lost  so  much  of  her  saw- 
dust as  to  be  far  too  limp  for  style,  and  spends 
most  of  her  days  reposing  on  Stanley's  bed.  But 
when  night  comes,  he  greets  her  with  rapturous 
kisses  and  embraces.  "Helen  is  a  great  comfort 
to  me,"  he  says,  "she  is  so  sweet!  " 

She  shares  his  couch  every  evening  until  he 
finds  himself  drifting  off  to.  dreamland,  when  she 
is  laid  out  of  harm's  way,  "because,"  he  says, 
"it  would  be  so  vurry  sad  if  I  should  roll  over  and 
squalchher."  She  receives  into  her  waxen  ear 
all  those  confidences  for  which  I  am  too  busy  to 
wait,  and  is  duly  instructed  in  number-work  and 
spelling  before  sleep  claims  her  little  father. 
Sometimes  he  lavishes  other  attentions  upon  her. 
One  night  he  called  out,  "I  have  washed  Hel- 
en's face,  Mother!" 

"  O,  Stanley!"  I  cried  in  consternation. 
"Water  will  spoil  it!" 


An  Adopted  Mother  203 

"Oh,  it  's  all  right,"  was  the  reassuring  reply. 
"I  did  it  like  Peter  does  himself!  "  [Peter  is  our 
cat.] 

When,  at  last,  Stanley  made  a  determined  and 
successful  effort  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark,  it  was 
done  ostensibly  on  Helen's  account.  ''She  is  old 
enough  now,"  he  said,  "to  learn  not  to  be  afraid 
in  the  dark."  And  long  after  I  turned  out  the 
light  and  left  the  room  I  heard  him  crooning  sweet 
and  reassuring  things  to  her. 

' '  She  is  doing  vurry  well  for  such  a  little  dollie, ' ' 
he  said  the  second  night,  which  was  rather  more 
blustering  and  nerve-testing,  "but  she  is  some 
scared.  I  fink,  if  you  could  find  the  time,  you  'd 
better  turn  up  the  light  here  a  minute  and  give 
me  her  little  shawl.  That  will  make  her  feel 
better." 

I  found  the  time,  and  saw  him  sitting  up  in 
bed,  rather  wide-eyed  himself,  explaining  to  her 
that  "that  scratchy  sound  is  just  rose-bushes  rub- 
bing against  the  house.  It  is  not  bears  at  all." 
He  was  already  learning  the  lesson  that  comes  to 
most  of  us  in  time,  that  of  being  brave  for  those 
who  are  weaker  than  we,  even  when  we  cannot  be 
brave  for  ourselves  alone. 

For  a  while  he  wanted  a  boy  doll,  evidently 
being  influenced  by  the  remarks  of  others  into 
feeling  that  a  girl  doll  was  too  effeminate,  al- 
though I  do  not  know  of  his  betraying  to  them 
that  he  played  with  one.  I  delayed  getting  it, 


204  Note-Book  of 

feeling  sure  that  its  freshness  would  make  him 
regard  Helen  with  disfavor,  even  while  he  found 
it  impossible  to  love  the  new  arrival  as  well. 
When  I  finally  bought  one,  his  rapture  lasted  for 
only  a  few  days.  Then  Helen  became  all-in-all 
once  more,  and  I  realized  my  injustice  in  doubt- 
ing that  he  loved  her  for  her  real  worth,  instead 
of  for  her  beauty. 

Stanley  is  as  boyish  and  sturdy  a  lad  as  I  ever 
knew.  He  is  the  sort  that  men  all  fancy,  feeling 
of  his  fine  muscle  and  laughing  over  his  attempts 
at  athletics.  Still,  that  is  only  one  more  reason 
why  I  rejoice  to  see  the  gentle,  protecting  side  of 
his  nature  fostered.  He  shall  have  his  dear  dollie 
as  long  as  he  wishes,  even  if  he  "are  a  boy." 

Peter,  too,  our  fine  great  cat,  has  been  an  ex- 
cellent companion  for  Stanley.  At  first  he  was 
intensely  jealous,  but  when  he  found  him  a  con- 
siderate companion  he  became  gracious  by  de- 
grees. Now  he  permits  great  liberties,  and  is 
championed  even  in  his  misdeeds  by  Stanley, 
who  gazes  tenderly  upon  him  when  he  is  "curled 
up  like  everyfing"  under  my  desk;  and  brags, 
when  Peter  does  not  sheath  his  claws  quickly 
enough  in  frolic,  that  "  our  cat  is  a  dandy 
scratchier."  This  sometimes  occurs  when  Stan- 
ley's fingers  are  bleeding  from  the  mishap,  and  it 
reminds  me  of  a  friend's  favorite  adage,  "It  is  a 
mighty  poor  frog  that  won't  croak  for  his  own 
puddle!" 


An  Adopted  Mother  205 

January  Jist,  1903. — I  have  written  to  the 
School  not  to  hold  Sidney  for  us  any  longer. 
Stanley  has  hardly  mentioned  him  lately,  and  has 
not  had  a  really  serious  crying  spell  this  month. 
I  shall  be  glad  when  he  is  quite  over  it.  It  has 
been  hard  on  all  of  us. 

February  2nd,  1903. — What  a  struggle  it  is  to 
rear  a  child  on  lines  entirely  different  from  those 
common  to  the  community!  All  of  Stanley's 
playmates  have  money  given  them  from  time  to 
time,  which  usually  remains  in  their  possession 
only  during  the  interval  necessary  for  them  to 
reach  the  confectioner's.  One  whole  family  sys- 
tematically extort  hush-money  from  their  parents 
by  screaming,  teasing,  and  tagging  their  father  to 
his  place  of  business,  until  they  are  bought  off 
with  a  penny  apiece.  The  father  exhorts,  threat- 
ens, and  even  whips  them  for  it,  but,  not  having 
a  logical  mind,  or  else  caring  too  much  for  the 
peace  of  the  moment,  he  does  not  stop  the  supply 
of  pennies. 

To  add  to  the  difficulties  of  the  case,  at  least 
one  of  our  leading  grocers  is  in  the  habit  of  treat- 
ing to  cheap  candy  all  small  children  who  are 
likely  to  have  spending-money  later.  Of  course 
he  gets  their  patronage  when  they  get  the  cash. 

Still,  all  these  problems  have  to  be  faced  sooner 
or  later,  and  it  may  be  just  as  well  to  have  it 
sooner.  Stanley  has  no  money  given  to  him, 


206  Note-Book  of 

and  that  which  is  paid  to  him  is  fairly  earned.  It 
is  stipulated  that  none  is  to  be  spent  for  candy  or 
gum.  Beyond  this  we  place  no  restrictions  upon 
his  expenditures.  At  present  his  regular  income 
is  three  cents  per  week,  earned  by  keeping  the 
kitchen  wood-box  filled,  and  collected  every  week 
from  his  father  on  my  verifying  his  statement  that 
he  has  done  his  work  faithfully  and  promptly. 

I  am  sure  that  I  earned  fifty  times  that  amount 
when  the  new  system  was  put  in  operation.  In- 
stead of  doing  it  early,  he  would  want  to  delay 
his  work  until  noon.  It  would  be  too  cold  in  the 
wood-shed,  he  would  be  too  tired,  his  arm  was 
lame  from  a  fall  he  had  the  day  before,  he  wanted 
the  boy  who  brings  our  cream  to  help  him,  and 
so  on,  indefinitely.  Sometimes  he  even  offered 
to  skip  a  day  and  take  iess  pay,  and  it  had  to  be 
carefully  explained  that  he  was  paid  for  the  regu- 
larity of  his  work,  and  that  Father  was  depending 
on  him.  It  was  a  wearisome  struggle,  but  he  was 
held  to  it,  and  now  glories  in  his  punctuality  and 
thoroughness.  It  is  fine  to  see  his  scorn  of  the 
other  boys  when  they  display  the  money  which 
has  been  given  to  them.  "I  earn  my  money," 
he  says.  "I  don't  have  money  given  to  me." 

When  it  was  time  for  his  birthday  offering  to 
go  into  the  Sunday-school  bank,  he  was  proud 
that  he  could  save  his  own  earnings  for  it,  and  all 
his  income  for  two  weeks  was  laid  on  the  altar. 
He  has  not  been  asked  to  give  from  his  store  for 


An  Adopted  Mother  207 

weekly  church  and  Sunday-school  contributions, 
but  when  he  earns  more  he  should  give  of  his 
earnings. 

No  amount  of  theorizing  could  have  instilled 
the  practical  wisdom  he  is  acquiring.  "You 
would  n't  fink  it  would  take  so  much  work  to 
earn  a  quarter,"  he  said  recently,  "  but  it  does." 

One  day  he  came  home  determined  to  take  a 
penny  from  his  bank  and  purchase  gum.  I  re- 
minded him  of  the  understanding  in  regard  to  it. 
He  declared  that  the  money  was  his  and  that  he 
would  buy  gum  if  he  wished.  He  was  hungry, 
tired,  and  cross.  After  luncheon  I  went  to  the 
door  to  see  him  off.  With  my  arm  around  him 
for  our  good-by  hug,  I  said,  "I  hope  you  have 
no  money  in  your  pocket." 

"Have  I?  "  said  he.  "Oh,  let  me  see!  There  is 
one  penny.  Please  take  it  back  to  my  bank  for  me. 
I  am  glad  you  'membered  me  of  it. ' '  So  that  temp- 
tation was  downed,  thanks  to  the  fortifying  effect 
of  a  square  meal  and  somebody  standing  ready  to 
turn  the  balance  at  the  psychological  moment. 

We  had  several  talks  on  the  folly  of  gum-buying 
after  that,  and  now  I  think  the  little  man  has 
convictions  of  his  own.  It  is  not  long  since  he 
found  himself  with  the  accrued  wages  of  two 
weeks.  He  had  great  fun  in  counting  and  re- 
counting his  pennies,  pretending  to  lose  one  and 
then  finding  it  again.  I  said,  "Some  boys  spend 
their  money  just  as  fast  as  they  earn  it." 


208  Note-Book  of 

' '  Yes, ' '  was  the  quick  reply.  ' '  Get  a  cent,  buy 
some  gum ;  get  a  cent,  buy  some  gum ;  get  a 
cent,  buy  some  gum ;  get  a  cent,  buy  some  gum ; 
get  a  cent,  buy  some  gum ;  get  a  cent,  buy  some 
gum.  Come  Sunday  morning  and  they  have  no 
cents  and  I  have  six  pennies!  " 

There  have  been  other  and  more  serious  temp- 
tations. Once  he  came  home  with  a  penny  which 
a  schoolmate  had  dropped  on  the  floor  "when 
he  was  being  bad."  Stanley  was  sure  that  the 
original  owner  had  forfeited  all  claim  and  that  it 
was  his.  When  he  came  to  see  that  the  teacher 
was  the  one  to  hold  it,  he  started  to  return  it  to 
her.  Playing  with  it  on  the  way,  he  dropped  it 
down  a  crack  and  then  it  had  to  be  replaced  from 
his  own  funds.  It  took  half  an  hour  to  make 
these  things  clear  to  the  child's  mind,  but  the 
time  to  settle  such  questions  is  when  they  arise. 
It  is  taking  too  many  chances  to  wait,  and  it  is 
best  to  check  these  things  before  the  child  is  old 
enough  to  have  misappropriation  really  a  sin. 

Perhaps  I  feel  rather  more  intensely  on  this 
point  because  I  really  suffered  from  a  theft  of 
my  own  when  I  was  six.  I  had  been  given  a 
pocketbook  for  Christmas,  a  bewitching  one  of 
bright  purple  leather,  with  a  small  mirror  on  one 
of  the  inner  flaps — a  mirror  in  which  I  could  in- 
spect my  face  by  sections  and  find  it  all  the  more 
interesting  because  it  had  such  a  preternaturally 
wavy  aspect.  In  one  pocket  there  was  a  bright 


An  Adopted  Mother  209 

penny.  That  was  very  charming,  but  the  more  I 
looked  at  that  penny  the  more  I  wondered  how 
it  would  seem  to  have  two  there,  rolling  after 
each  other  as  I  tilted  the  pocketbook  and  jingling 
together  when  I  shook  it. 

My  mother  never  dreamed  that  her  child  could 
steal,  and  her  purse  was  often  around.  I  stole 
one  cent,  had  an  hour's  guilty  delight  in  it,  re- 
pented and  tried  to  replace  it,  but  could  not  find 
the  purse.  I  think  I  did  not  look  my  mother  in 
the  face  for  a  week.  I  remember  that  when  she 
called  me  I  was  so  often  in  my  toy  closet  that  it 
became  a  subject  of  remark.  I  dared  not  throw 
the  penny  away  because  I  needed  it  for  restitu- 
tion, yet  I  dared  not  keep  it  with  the  other. 
When  I  finally  got  it  back  where  it  should  be, 
my  conscience  did  not  cease  from  troubling,  and 
I  am  sure  that  in  the  long  run  she  must  have  re- 
covered thirty-fold.  Even  now  I  sometimes  feel 
a  reminiscent  flush  of  shame  at  the  thought  of  it. 

I  have  heard  small  boys  in  this  town  tell  of 
holding  back  the  offering  which  had  been  given 
them  for  Sunday-school,  and  have  quietly  in- 
spected Stanley's  pockets  on  his  return  each  Sun- 
day. To-day  I  found  a  coin  there.  He  was 
indignant,  ashamed,  and  penitent,  all  at  once. 
Of  course  he  tried  to  invent  a  plausible  explana- 
tion, but  his  eyes  persisted  in  telling  the  truth. 
We  had  a  long  talk,  and  I  told  him  of  my  early 
theft  and  how  unhappy  it  made  me.  It  was  all 


210  Note-Book  of 

straightened  up  at  last  and  the  money  put  aside 
to  go  in  next  week,  but  I  am  glad  and  thankful 
that  what  I  feel  sure  was  his  first  theft  of  money 
was  promptly  detected.  This  doing  wrong  and 
escaping  detection  is  a  dangerous  experience. 

February  $th,  1903. — Our  little  city,  like  most 
others  during  this  winter  of  anthracite  famine, 
has  been  driven  to  the  almost  exclusive  use  of 
soft  coal.  Stanley  feels  that  this  has  greatly  in- 
creased his  responsibilities  and  care  of  me.  It  is 
such  an  anomalous  situation.  He  goes  to  a 
friend's  house  to  play  and  I  call  for  him  at  five 
o'clock.  He  would  not  dare  come  home  alone 
through  the  dusk  of  the  winter's  eve,  but  from 
the  moment  that  he  slips  his  soft  little  hand  into 
mine,  he  thinks  that  I  am  the  one  to  be  cared  for 
and  protected. 

This  solicitude  reached  a  climax  to-day,  when 
we  got  into  a  current  of  coal  gas.  ' '  Don't  breave 
along  here,  Mother,"  he  said.  "I  '11  show  you 
how  not  to.  You  stick  your  tongue  out  and  roll 
it  up  and  wiggle  it — so  !  Then  you  don't  breave, 
you  see.  It  's  gas  in  the  air,  you  know,  and  if 
you  breave  it,  it  will  make  you  dead." 

I  put  my  muff  up  to  my  face  and  was  not  made 
dead.  Stanley  thinks  that  his  presence  of  mind 
alone  was  my  salvation. 

My  manners  also  came  in  for  attention,  and  I 
think  the  reproof  was  merited.  Stanley  spoke  of 


An  Adopted  Mother  211 

a  playmate  as  "El,"  and  I  soon  did  the  same 
thing,  when  he  gravely  remarked:  "I  call  him 
'  El'  because  I  know  more  about  him,  but  ladies 
should  call  him  Elmore.  You  '11  'member  that, 
won't  you,  Mother?" 

February  ytk,  1903. — I  fear  our  friend,  the 
Superintendent  of  the  School,  will  think  we  are 
as  waves  of  the  sea,  driven  about  by  every  wind, 
for  Stanley  had  another  heart-breaking  time  last 
night  and  Ernest  had  me  write  again  to  find  out 
if  Sidney  is  there.  "If  he  is,"  he  says,  "we 
must  have  him,  but  then  we  shall  have  to  wait  a 
couple  of  years  for  the  little  girl.  It  won't  do  to 
increase  our  expenses  too  fast.  And  of  course  it 
will  not  do  to  tell  Stanley  of  our  plans  until  we 
are  sure  that  we  can  have  Sidney.  He  may  have 
been  given  to  another  family." 

From  which  it  will  be  seen  that  Ernest  is 
changing  his  mind  in  more  ways  than  one. 
"Another  boy  and  a  little  girl."  Stanley  may 
have  been  only  the  entering  wedge.  Suppose  the 
little  girl  should  have  a  sister  or  friend  in  the 
School  for  whom  she  longs?  There  may  be  an 
endless-chain  system  in  the  matter  of  adoptions, 
as  well  as  in  writing  begging  letters  for  one's 
favorite  charity. 

I  am  also  struck  by  the  complete  way  in  which 
Ernest  has  given  himself  to  the  new  plan.  There 
is  never  anything  half-way  about  Ernest.  At 


212  Note-Book  of 

noon  he  wished  that  he  had  telegraphed.  "I 
could  even  now,"  he  said.  "I  should  hate  to  let 
Sidney  slip  through  our  fingers  for  the  lack  of  a 
little  effort."  At  dinner  he  expressed  relief  that 
"a  certain  letter  had  almost  reached  its  destina- 
tion." And  all  the  time  the  chubby  youngster 
at  the  end  of  the  table  had  no  thought  of  how  he 
had  upset  preconceived  ideas,  revolutionized  a 
quiet  old  house,  and  twisted  two  conservative 
people  around  his  fat  little  finger. 

February  I2tk,  1903. — It  happened  just  as  I 
had  hoped  it  would  not,  Stanley  crying  for  his 
brother  again  for  two  hours  last  night,  and  I,  not 
yet  knowing  Sidney's  whereabouts,  could  say 
nothing  hopeful  to  cheer  him.  His  grief  has  all 
the  hopelessness  that  one  feels  who  has  buried 
his  heart's  dearest.  ''When  you  went  to  the 
School,"  he  asked,  "why  did  n't  you  take  Sid- 
ney instead  of  me?  He  's  lots  lovelier  than  I 
am." 

"He  was  an  older  child  than  I  wanted,  dear," 
I  answered  truthfully,  "and  would  you  like  it  any 
better  if  I  had?  Suppose  I  had  brought  him  here 
and  left  you  there?  You  would  not  have  been 
together  then." 

"  But,  Mother,"  he  protested,  "  don't  you 
s'pose  Father  could  pay  for  bofe  of  us?  Lots  of 
fathers  do  pay  for  two  little  boys,  and  some 
fathers  pays  for  more.  And  some  of  them  are 


An  Adopted  Mother  213 

not  as  nice  as  Sidney  and  me.  Why  does  the 
Blanks  have  such  lots  of  naughty  children?  I 
should  n't  fink  they  'd  want  'em  at  all." 

The  poor  little  fellow  finally  got  into  such  a 
state  that  I  did  what  my  reason  said  might  be 
only  preparing  for  another  scene — I  told  him  that 
he  might  ask  Ernest  in  the  morning  if  he  could 
have  his  brother,  and  explained  that  it  would 
take  so  much  more  money  if  we  had  a  second 
boy,  that  I  thought  he  should  tell  his  father  he 
was  willing  to  give  up  the  promised  dog  and  to 
share  all  his  toys  with  Sidney,  if  he  could  have 
him  here.  I  feared  that  the  child  would  make 
himself  ill  if  something  were  not  done  to  quiet 
him. 

It  proves  how  much  closer  the  mother  comes  to 
the  child  with  her  greater  opportunities  for  inti- 
macy, that  Stanley  had  never  yet  said  one  word 
to  Ernest  about  this  dearest  wish  of  his  heart.  I 
hoped  the  old  reserve  would  keep  him  from 
broaching  the  subject  until  we  could  hear  from 
the  School. 

Fortunately  the  letter  came  soon  after  Stanley 
fell  asleep.  Sidney  was  at  the  School  and  should 
be  kept  for  us.  We  decided  to  say  nothing  about 
it  until  after  breakfast,  if  possible,  feeling  that 
Stanley  would  eat  none  if  he  became  too  much 
excited. 

I  underestimated  the  strength  of  the  little  fel- 
low's resolution,  for  we  were  hardly  seated  at  the 


214  Note-Book  of 

table  this  morning  before  he  began,  his  eyes  large 
with  excitement  and  his  lips  quivering  with 
anxiety.  "Father,"  he  said,  "may  I  please  have 
my  brother  come  here  to  live?  He  is  so  good, 
and  I  will  be  gooder  than  I  have  ever  been  yet. 
And  I  don't  want  my  dog,  and " 

Ernest's  answer  was  somewhat  choked,  and 
Stanley  misunderstood  him,  thinking  that  he  said 
"No."  He  gave  a  heart-breaking  sob  and  fell 
limply  against  my  shoulder.  It  took  fully  five 
minutes  to  make  him  understand  that  Sidney  was 
to  come,  and  even  then  he  could  not  stop  the 
flow  of  tears.  Well !  We  all  cried  together  and 
I  fancy  it  did  us  good,  although  it  was  not  at  all 
beautifying,  and  our  breakfast  was  hardly  touched. 
I  am  sure  Stanley  got  quite  a  new  idea  of  Ernest's 
tenderness  of  heart,  and  sharing  deep  emotion 
tightens  the  family  bonds. 

Ever  since  we  got  calmed  down,  this  has  been 
a  blessed  day  for  us  all.  Stanley  knows  that  Sid- 
ney is  not  to  come  until  spring,  we  having  to 
make  some  changes  in  our  house  first,  but  that 
does  not  trouble  him  at  all.  "I  know  he  is 
coming,"  he  says  over  and  over  again,  "because 
when  you  and  Father  tell  fings  they  are  always 
so."  He  has  sorted  out  his  best  toys  to  be  kept 
for  Sidney,  and  will  not  use  them  himself  for  fear 
something  may  happen  to  them  before  his  brother 
comes. 

I  should  like  to  know   just  how  he  acted  at 


An  Adopted  Mother  215 

school.  I  imagine  he  "gave  to  a  gracious  mes- 
sage an  host  of  tongues,"  for  he  brought  home  a 
note  from  Miss  Murray  at  noon.  "Is  there  any 
foundation  for  what  Stanley  says  about  his 
brother  coming  here  to  live?"  she  wrote.  "I 
suppose  it  is  just  a  fancy  of  his.  I  have  tried  in 
every  way  to  get  him  out  of  the  notion,  but  he 
says  it  is  true  because  his  father  has  promised." 

"I  told  her  and  told  her,"  Stanley  explained, 
"but  she  kept  saying  that  she  guessed  not.  I 
told  the  boys,  too.  And  the  girls.  Mr.  Ellison 
said  he  was  glad — I  met  him  on  the  street,  you 
know,  so  I  told  him.  There  were  some  other 
people,  too,  what  I  told,  but  I  don't  know  their 
names.  I  guess  they  just  came  up  from  the 
station." 

At  intervals  all  day  he  has  come  to  me  to 
"have  a  little  visit  about  Sidney."  "You  won't 
be  tired  at  all  when  he  comes,"  he  assures  me, 
"cause  then  you  will  have  two  boys  to  take  care 
of  you.  He  can  even  make  beds.  You  can  just 
— you  can  just  go  outdoors  and  watch  bugs  all  the 
time.  And  I  will  never  be  afraid  or  cry  at  night 
any  more,  'cause  I  will  have  Sidney." 

February  i^th,  1903. — What  would  I  not  give 
to  be  able  to  follow  all  the  processes  of  a  child's 
mind?  Stanley  and  I  have  had  a  sort  of  continu- 
ous-performance contest  of  wills  for  several  days, 
and  while  I  did  not  yield  ground  at  all  I  could  not 


216  Note-Book  of 

see  that  I  gained  any.  I  began  to  have  depressed 
moments  of  wondering  whether  it  were  all  worth 
while,  and  to  have  a  new  comprehension  of  how 
nervous  and  feeble  women  are  sometimes  sim- 
ply worn  into  submission  by  vigorous  children. 
Then,  as  usual,  I  began  to  feel  ashamed  of  my- 
self and  nailed  my  colors  to  the  mast. 

At  noon  Stanley  was  eating  his  solitary  luncheon 
in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen,  while  I  was  busy  with 
other  things.  Suddenly  he  brought  his  funny 
little  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a  resounding 
whack,  and  said,  thumping  time  as  he  spoke: 
"I  have  decided  two  fings.  I  will  not  eat  any 
more  dates  this  noon,  and  I  will  not  be  bad  any 
more." 

When  I  had  comprehended  this,  he  went  on : 
44 1  will  not  be  bad  to-day !  I  will  not  be  bad  to- 
morrow, or  the  next  day,  or  the  next  day,  or  the 
next  day,  or  the  next  day,  or  the  next  day  !  And 
then  I  will  not  be  bad  for  twenty  days,  and  then, 
after  that,  I  will  not  be  bad  at  all !  I  will  not  be 
bad  ever  again !  ' ' 

Of  course  he  will  "be  bad"  a  great  many  times, 
just  as  all  of  us  are  after  we  turn  away  from  our 
Mount  of  Transfiguration,  but  he  will  always  be 
a  trifle  stronger,  just  as  we  are,  for  having  held  a 
high  resolve.  So  my  day,  which  began  in  un- 
pleasantness and  weariness  of  spirit,  has  ended 
most  beautifully. 


An  Adopted  Mother  217 

February  iytk,  1903. — What  do  we  not  discuss 
over  the  kitchen  table?  Mother  always  laughs  at 
me  for  giving  Stanley  scientific  facts  in  reply  to 
his  questions,  but  I  find  he  thinks  them  as  in- 
teresting as  fairy  tales  if  they  are  put  into  words 
which  he  can  comprehend,  and  I  am  sure  he  will 
find  them  quite  as  useful  in  the  long  run. 

This  noon  it  was  ornithology,  running  into 
some  other  ology,  the  name  of  which  I  do  not 
know,  if  indeed  it  has  a  name.  "Mother,"  said 
he,  "what  makes  the  birds  fly?" 

"The  strong  muscles  in  their  wings,  dear." 

"If  they  stopped  wiggling  them  would  they  fall 
down? " 

' '  No.  They  would  hold  their  wings  spread  and 
float  down.  Do  you  remember  the  paper  balloons 
that  we  watched  on  the  Fourth  of  July?  It  is 
the  warm  air  inside  which  makes  them  light,  so 
that  they  float.  Birds  have  little  places  all 
through  their  bodies,  in  their  bones  and  else- 
where, in  which  there  is  warm  air.  Their  hot 
blood  keeps  it  warm,  and  this  makes  them  light, 
so  that  they  float  down  instead  of  tumbling." 

"Yes,  Mother,  I  understand,  and  oh,  don't 
you  b'leeve  angels  are  made  that  way,  too? " 

February  20th,  1903. — Another  victory  for  my 
little  Christian  soldier!  My  washerwoman  sent 
the  basket  of  clean  clothes  home  so  late  this  week 
that  I  was  obliged  to  iron  all  afternoon,  and  when 


218  Note-Book  of 

Stanley  returned  from  school,  I  was  busily  at  it  in 
the  kitchen,  close  to  the  dining-room  door. 

He  was  rather  out  of  sorts  when  he  came  in, 
but  the  weather  was  dreadful  and  he  said  nothing 
about  going  out  into  the  storm  again.  After  he 
had  been  here  an  hour,  he  asked  if  he  might  go  to 
Harry's.  I  said  "No,"  and  gave  my  reason:  it 
was  too  late  on  such  a  short  and  stormy  winter 
day.  Stanley  was  very  cross,  grumbled,  sput- 
tered, and  declared  that  he  was  going  anyway, 
whether  permitted  or  not.  Then  he  began  to 
put  on  his  wraps.  I  said  nothing,  thinking  I 
would  try  the  value  of  non-resistance  as  long  as 
possible.  I  looked  very  sober  and  kept  on  with 
my  work.  I  did,  however,  make  an  opportunity 
to  lock  both  outside  doors  and  pocket  the  keys 
without  detection.  He  had  on  his  many  wrap- 
pings, and  only  the  buckles  of  his  arctics  re- 
mained to  be  fastened.  Then,  although  I  did 
not  look  toward  him,  I  noticed  that  he  stopped 
his  struggles.  Soon  a  voice  of  different  tone  said, 
"What  do  you  fink  I  am  going  to  do  now? " 

Knowing  the  proper  thing  to  say  under  such 
circumstances,  I  promptly  replied,  "I  cannot  im- 
agine, but  I  know  what  I  wish  you  would  do." 

Then  Stanley  asked,  "Do  you  need  to  come 
into  the  dining-room  for  a  little  while,  Mother?" 

"No,  not  at  all." 

"Well,  I  am  going  to  shut  the  door,  and  don't 
you  look  until  I  tell  you  !  " 


An  Adopted  Mother  219 

Then  followed  great  puffings  and  tuggings, 
heard  indistinctly  through  the  closed  door.  A 
warning  followed  these:  "Don't  you  look  until  I 
tell  you!  There!" 

The  door  swung  open  and  I  saw  Stanley,  his 
wraps  all  removed  and  put  away,  arms  out- 
stretched, and  face  radiant  with  the  light  of  self- 
conquest.  "Did  you  know  I  was  going  to  do 
that?"  said  he.  "You  'd  better  guess  God  was 
s'prised  when  He  saw  me  taking  off  my  over- 
shoes. Made  Him  happy.  Angels  too !  You 
too!  Made  lots  of  folks  happy  that  time!  " 

I  am  sure  there  was  rejoicing  in  the  kitchen 
over  the  one  little  sinner  that  returned,  whether 
it  reached  to  heaven  or  not.  But  I  believe  it  did. 
And  if  the  last  pair  of  pillow-slips  were  hung  on 
the  bars  in  a  rather  wrinkled  condition,  and  the 
ironing-board  stood  around  until  half-past  eight 
in  the  evening,  it  was  because  Stanley  and  I 
simply  had  to  celebrate  his  victory  by  looking  at 
"animal  books"  together.  These  (my  new  set  of 
Lydekker's)  furnish  the  very  refinement  of  bliss 
for  him,  and  since  he  is  not  permitted  to  handle 
them  himself,  looking  at  them  is  a  rare  privilege 
in  these  busy  months  when  I  have  to  be  mother, 
maid-of-all-work,  and  writer,  as  well  as  club-wo- 
man and  church-  and  Sunday-school  worker. 

And  through  what  rose-colored  glasses  did  he 
look  at  the  many  pictures !  The  whales  were  a 
little  bigger,  the  lions  a  little  fiercer,  and  the 


220  Note-Book  of 

kangaroos  much  funnier  than  ever  before.  And 
then  he  made  so  many  jokes  of  his  own  nonsensi- 
cal sort,  asking  if  I  did  not  think  that  the  alligators 
had  pleasant  looking  moufs,  and  saying  he  fought 
the  bats  must  feel  like  umbrellas  when  they  hung 
themselves  up  to  sleep.  I  suppose  it  was  the  as- 
sociation of  ideas,  but  I  could  not  help  remember- 
ing what  somebody  once  said  about  Jonah  being 
at  his  best  in  the  whale's  belly. 

February  26th,  1903. — Soon  after  Stanley  came 
to  live  with  us,  we  had  a  friend  visiting  in  the 
home,  a  college  president  and  a  father.  He  took 
a  great  liking  to  the  child  and  watched  him  con- 
stantly. "Give  him  work  to  do  as  soon  as  you 
can,"  he  said.  "Give  him  lots  of  it  and  keep 
him  at  it,  even  when  he  wants  to  leave  a  task  un- 
finished. There  is  nothing  like  work  for  a  strong, 
active  child  of  his  stamp." 

It  was  exactly  what  I  had  resolved,  and  yet  he 
did  well  to  impress  it  on  my  mind,  for  it  is  always 
much  easier  to  do  a  thing  than  to  teach  a  child  to 
do  it.  Stanley  is  a  good  reliable  worker,  now, 
with  right  ideals  in  this  direction.  ' '  Sometimes, ' ' 
he  says,  "the  bigger  boys  ask  me  to  help  them 
put  on  their  overshoes,  but  I  do  not  do  it.  I  fink 
it  is  better  for  them  to  learn  to  help  themselves. 
But  course  I  help  littler  boys.  And  always  girls. 

Being  without  a  housekeeper  or  even  an  ordi- 
nary servant  all  winter  has  given  Stanley  many 


An  Adopted  Mother  221 

chances  to  help,  and  it  is  fortunate  the  extra 
work  has  fallen  on  me  at  a  season  when  he  is 
obliged  to  spend  so  much  time  within  doors.  It 
is  a  joyful  sight  to  see  him  flying  around  in  his 
little  chafing-dish  apron,  with  his  sweater  sleeves 
rolled  far  above  his  elbows  and  his  hands  and 
arms  scrubbed  to  a  rosy  pink,  executing  orders  as 
fast  as  I  can  issue  them.  He  is  really  a  great 
help  now,  for  our  house  is  a  place  of  magnificent 
distances,  and  he  saves  me  many  steps.  He  fre- 
quently puts  all  the  food  on  the  table  before  a 
meal  and  brings  out  all  the  soiled  dishes  after- 
ward, doing  it  exactly  as  well  as  I  could.  "Don't 
do  that,"  he  says  of  many  little  tasks,  like  scour- 
ing the  kitchen  knives  or  feeding  the  cat.  "That 
is  my  business." 

He  speaks  scornfully  of  playmates  who  "don't 
do  a  single  fing  to  help  their  mothers,  even  when 
they  have  n't  anybody  else  to  help  them.  I  don't 
fink  they  ought  to  have  anyfing  to  eat  when  it 
is  cooked,"  he  adds.  "Don't  you  know  what 
you  told  me  about  the  Bible?  'If  well  people 
won't  work,  they  had  n't  ought  to  eat.'  ['If  any 
will  not  work,  neither  shall  he  eat.']" 

He  can  make  Ernest's  cocoa  as  well  as  I,  and 
the  privilege  of  doing  this  is  esteemed  a  great 
honor,  especially  when  he  is  permitted  to  get  out 
and  measure  the  various  ingredients.  He  thinks 
that  there  was  never  such  a  good  father  in  the 
world,  and  working  for  him  in  any  way  is  joyful 


222  Note-Book  of 

service.  "I  am  going  to  grow  so  much, ' '  he  says, 
"that  some  day  I  will  be  your  grandfather.  And 
then  I  will  work  in  the  store  and  help  Father. 
But  I  will  be  a  good  cooker,  too,  so  I  can 
make  his  cocoa  and  rings.  I  will  cook  rings  for 
you,  too.  I  will  make  you  bofe  some  ostridge 
soup." 

He  has  pride  in  the  quality  of  his  work  as  well 
as  in  the  quantity.  Once  in  a  great  while  I  let 
him  wash  the  saucepans,  and  because  this  so 
seldom  happens  (I  always  wishing  to  linger  and  go 
over  them  again)  it  is  a  most  solemn  function,  not 
to  be  entered  upon  lightly  or  without  due  con- 
sideration. He  usually  expatiates  upon  it  while 
at  work.  "Now,  when  you  wash  saucepans, 
you  have  to  be  very  careful,"  he  says,  as  he 
stands  on  a  chair  to  reach  the  dish-pan.  "When 
I  was  a  little  boy  I  was  careless  sometimes. ' ' 

Even  when  I  am  not  apparently  busy,  so  that 
there  is  no  power  of  example  to  influence  him, 
he  often  begs  for  work.  ' '  Give  me  some  work  to 
do,"  he  says.  '  I  am  tired  of  playing." 

If,  as  Van  Dyke  suggests,  every  life  may  have 
its  ruling  passion,  asserting  itself  before  and  con- 
tinuing after  that  of  romantic  love,  I  do  not  know 
what  is  to  be  preferred  to  a  passion  for  work. 
Having  foresworn  laziness  myself  some  years  ago, 
I  speak  as  one  having  authority.  To  do  useful 
work  as  well  as  one  can,  never  slighting  or  desert- 
ing it  for  anything  less  worth  while ;  to  take  rest 


An  Adopted  Mother  223 

and  recreation,  but  to  take  it  because,  as  Horace 
says,  "a  field  that  has  rested  yields  an  abundant 
harvest"  ;  to  feel  somewhat  of  the  creative  spirit ; 
to  learn  to  accomplish  easily  what  was  once  the 
impossible;  and  to  feel  the  increasing  capability 
of  both  body  and  mind ;  this  is  a  worthy  ruling 
passion.  It  is  one,  too,  equally  useful  in  both 
adversity  and  prosperity.  The  rich  man's  son  is 
steadied  and  saved  by  it,  and  the  poor  man's  son 
is  kept  from  discontent  and  brooding,  as  well  as 
being  lifted  to  a  higher  point  of  vantage  than  his 
father  had  before  him.  Those  who  would  play 
find  keener  delight  in  pleasure  because  they  have 
been  working  steadily  and  faithfully;  those  in 
trouble  find  work  their  greatest  comfort.  Truly 
I  wish  for  my  boy  the  strongest,  sweetest,  and 
most  abiding  romantic  love,  but  love  and  work  go 
well  together,  and  I  will  cultivate  in  him  an  in- 
telligent passion  for  work.  Love  will  come  in  its 
own  time. 

Already  I  see  Stanley  rescued  from  little  beset- 
ments  by  his  industry.  Filling  the  wood-box  has 
worked  off  many  a  spell  of  irritability,  which  was 
harmlessly  expended  upon  the  "chunks";  and 
last  night  he  triumphed  remarkably  over  his  fear 
of  darkness.  "I  'm  going  into  the  wood-shed  to 
make  me  some  arrows,"  he  said,  "because  I  reelly 
shall  need  them  as  soon  as  it  comes  spring.  Only 
will  you  please  sing  quite  loudly  while  I  am  there? 
Because,  you  know,  I  am  rather  afraid." 


224  Note-Book  of 

February  28th,  1903. — How  hard  it  is  to  deal 
wisely  with  the  unconscious  irreverence  of  child- 
hood !  It  hurts  older  people  so,  particularly  those 
of  us  who  have  strongly  religious  feelings,  to  hear 
sacred  things  mentioned  in  the  same  way  as  secu- 
lar ones.  It  was  only  a  few  days  ago  that  Stanley 
asked  me  about  the  size  of  God.  "He  must  be 
very,  very  tall, ' '  said  he.  ' '  Could  He  get  drowned 
in  our  bay? "  [The  large  bay  on  which  our  sum- 
mer home  is  situated.] 

I  was  on  the  point  of  saying  the  conventional 
"Oh,  you  must  not  talk  about  God  in  that  way," 
when  there  flashed  into  my  mind  a  stanza  of 
Whittier's  which  we  often  sing: 


"  We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steeps 

To  bring  the  Lord  Christ  down; 

In  vain  we  search  the  lowest  deeps, 

For  Him  no  depths  can  drown." 


And  then  I  saw  that  poet  and  child  were  think- 
ing on  the  same  great  question,  and  who  was  I 
that  I  should  reprove  the  child  ? 

To-day  I  had  a  somewhat  similar  experience, 
but  saw  my  way  out,  leaving  Stanley  with  a  feel- 
ing of  happy  satisfaction  and  a  lesson  to  ponder 
on  as  well.  He  was  just  in  from  coasting  with 
the  other  boys.  "It  is  n't  safe  to  coast  on  your 
back,  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"No." 


An  Adopted  Mother  225 

"Or  standing  up? " 

"No." 

"Mother,  don't  you  fink  Jesus  could  do  it  all 
right  when  He  was  alive?  " 

"Yes,  Stanley,  I  think  He  could  have  done  it 
without  hurting  Himself  if  there  had  been  snow 
in  the  country  where  He  lived.  But  suppose  He 
had  done  it  safely  and  there  were  a  lot  of  boys 
around  who  could  not,  and  yet  kept  wanting  to 
try  when  they  saw  Him?  Do  you  think  He  was 
the  kind  of  boy  to  do  it  and  make  them  want  to 
try,  when  they  should  not? " 

There  was  fine  scorn  in  Stanley's  tones  as  he 
answered:  "Course  He  would  n't.  There  might 
even  be  some  little  baby  boys  there  what  did  n't 
know  any  better  than  to  do  fings  He  did.  He  'd 
just  say  'I  can  have  a  good  enough  time  with- 
out,' and  He  would  not  do  what  they  had  n't 
ought  to.  It  would  make  them  feel  bad,  you 
know,  and  He  was  n't  that  sort." 

March  ?th,  1903. —  This  has  been  a  very  in- 
teresting day  for  children  on  account  of  the  glare 
of  ice  and  the  falling  rain.  For  fat  little  boys 
who  have  not  far  to  fall,  it  has  been  a  rollicking 
time.  Many  were  the  tumbles  reported  to  me, 
but  the  most  picturesque  was  that  of  a  dog. 
"He  did  n't  fall  down  just  like  other  people,  be- 
cause he  had  more  legs."  I  wonder  if  it  were  the 
one  offered  to  Stanley  the  other  day  by  a  small 


226  Note-Book  of 

girl,  who  was  obliged  to  give  it  away  before  taxes 
were  assessed.  I  made  inquiries  as  to  breed,  and 
was  told  it  was  "half  spaniel  and  half  puppy," 
Stanley  adding,  "That  is  the  very  best  kind  to 
have,  you  know,  Mother." 

But  the  latter  part  of  to-day  was  overshadowed 
by  an  accident,  and  Stanley  came  in  crying,  with 
his  rubber  boots  full  of  water.  "It  was  all  Ed- 
win's fault  anyway,"  he  sobbed.  "He  made  me 
fall  down  into  the  water.  He  made  me  run  so 
fast.  You  see  he  was  a  chickmump  and  I  was  a 
dog,  and  he  went  too  fast  and  I  had  to  catch 
him."  A  sense  of  humor  is  a  wonderful  help  in 
such  emergencies,  and  this  was  an  emergency  for 
me,  because  losing  time  to  comfort  and  re-costume 
a  small  boy  just  then  meant  failing  to  get  off  im- 
portant mail,  so  I  managed  to  keep  serene,  and 
said,  "Well,  next  time  don't  be  a  dog  when  you 
have  your  rubber  boots  on."  Then  we  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  and  forgot  our  sorrows  and 
annoyances  in  a  good  laugh.  I  am  glad  that 
Stanley  can  see  a  joke,  and  I  mean  to  keep  the 
fun  alive  in  him.  There  is  something  abnormal 
about  a  child  who  does  not  joke  in  his  own  way, 
but  it  is  sadly  little  encouragement  that  many  of 
them  have  in  it,  parents  not  realizing  the  real 
educational  value  of  fun. 


March  nth,  ipoj.  —  My  birthday,  and  I  had  a 
novel  gift.     Ernest  had  been  too  busy  to  lay  any 


An  Adopted  Mother  227 

little  plans  with  Stanley,  and  when  he  heard  that 
it  was  my  birthday  he  was  much  depressed  to 
think  he  had  no  gift  for  me.  Ernest  promptly 
bought  one  for  him  to  present  as  coming  from 
them  both,  in  spite  of  my  having  been  remem- 
bered already.  But  this  did  not  satisfy  him,  and 
he  went  off  by  himself  for  a  long  time. 

He  returned  radiant,  and  gave  me  a  large  shiny 
metal  bottle  cover,  which  he  had  picked  up  some- 
where a  week  before,  and  which  was  his  chief 
treasure.  "You  can  keep  it  on  your  dresser,"  he 
said.  "If  you  get  somefing  in  your  eye,  you  can 
see  it  in  this.  It  is  big  enough  for  one  eye,  you 
know,  and  it  will  look  very  pretty  there.  Is  n't 
it  a  sweet  s'prise?  You  had  n't  reelly  seen  it  be- 
fore, had  you? " 

Blessed  boy,  as  if  I  did  n't  know  what  it  had 
cost  him !  All  day  he  has  been  going  in  to  look 
at  it  and  finger  it  wistfully,  always  turning  away 
with  the  same  remark,  "But  I  am  glad  that  you 
have  it,"  and  with  a  shining  face  as  well.  If  I 
could  not  see  beyond  to-day,  I  would  never  have 
the  heart  to  take  a  gift  so  dear  to  the  giver.  But 
selfishness  comes  easily  enough  to  us  all,  and  I 
will  not  inculcate  it  in  Stanley.  The  joy  of  self- 
sacrifice  may  mean  as  much  to  him  as  the  joy  of 
possession,  and  it  is  surely  nobler. 

March  i6th,  1903. — It  seems  as  though  one 
having  the  care  of  a  child  from  the  beginning 


228  Note-Book  of 

might  keep  his  English  pure  without  much 
trouble,  but  what  a  task  it  is  to  take  even  a  boy 
of  five  who  has  lived  among  users  of  slang  and 
incorrect  English,  and  thoroughly  revise  his  vocab- 
ulary. They  are  not  indifferent  to  such  matters 
in  the  School,  yet  the  odds  are  against  them. 
New  children  are  always  coming  in,  and  the  bet- 
ter trained  ones  going  out  to  homes,  most  of  the 
new-comers  from  the  commonest  sort  of  sur- 
roundings, and  the  employees  of  the  institution 
cumbered  with  many  cares. 

It  would  not  do  to  nag  the  child,  and  I  was 
particularly  anxious  to  spare  him  anything  of  the 
sort  when  he  was  so  overwhelmed  with  newness 
and  strangeness  as  really  to  suffer  from  a  form 
of  brain-fag  every  night.  His  use  of  the  word 
"awful"  was  the  most  striking  fault,  so  I  began 
on  that,  reminding  him  every  time  he  said  it  and 
ignoring  all  other  blunders.  When  he  had  fairly 
mastered  that,  I  took  "You  bet"  as  the  subject 
of  special  attention.  We  made  a  game  of  it,  and 
Stanley  soon  became  intensely  interested  in  get- 
ting his  lips  shut  before  the  wrong  word  could 
escape.  A  judicious  compliment  from  time  to 
time  helped,  and  I  was  careful  not  to  bother  him 
with  correcting  errors  which  would  soon  right 
themselves.  For  instance,  he  still  has  a  tendency 
to  make  some  of  his  verbs  regular  when  they 
should  not  be,  but  he  has  picked  up  many  correct 
forms  quite  unconsciously. 


An  Adopted  Mother  229 

It  has  interested  him  to  know  that  we  have  the 
most  wonderful  language  in  the  world  and  that  it 
has  been  growing  for  hundreds  of  years.  I  tell 
him  we  must  take  care  of  what  words  we  use,  so 
that  they  will  be  right  for  other  people  to  use 
after  us.  We  must  not  spoil  them  by  using  them 
for  the  wrong  purpose,  as  a  carpenter  might  spoil 
a  saw  if  he  took  it  to  pound  nails.  It  is  true  that 
this  cultivated  fastidiousness  has  its  disadvantages, 
as  when  he  recently  corrected  a  young  man  who 
called  here  for  saying  "bet!"  "You  must  not 
say  that  word  around  this  house, ' '  he  said.  ' '  We 
don't  allow  it." 

His  efforts  at  extending  his  own  vocabulary  are 
very  funny,  and  I  can  usually  tell  when  he  is 
making  ready  to  experiment  on  a  new  word.  In- 
deed I  sometimes  tempt  him  into  it  by  using 
some  rather  difficult  one  with  a  comprehensible 
meaning  several  times  in  close  succession.  Then 
I  see  him  casting  about  for  a  chance  to  work  it  in. 
It  seems  queer  to  hear  him  say  that  he  is  "anxious 
for  a  cookie,"  but  the  only  times  he  has  really 
blundered  were  when  he  said  that  Anita  "had 
gone  so  far  away  that  she  has  gone  out  of  pa- 
tience," and  when  he  told  of  a  dreadful  fall  which 
had  ' '  nearly  explained  his  shoulder. "  He  is  very 
shrewd  and  canny  about  betraying  ignorance,  but 
he  never  denies  himself  expression  for  the  want 
of  a  familiar  word. 

"  I  am  a  pretty  good  frower-ball, ' '  he  announced 


230  Note-Book  of 

some  time  ago,  "and  I  mean  to  be  a  base-bailer 
when  I  am  big."  This  must  not  be  regarded  as 
committing  him  irrevocably  to  a  sporting  career, 
for  he  also  wishes  to  be  a  "seller-man"  in  his 
father's  store,  and  has  mentioned  being  a  "polar- 
man"  (lineman)  for  the  telegraph  company. 

It  makes  one  realize  more  than  ever  the  pecu- 
liarities of  our  mother  tongue  to  see  how  they 
entrap  a  child.  Why  should  we  not  speak,  as 
Stanley  has  done,  of  "the  very  pettest  pig  of 
all  ?  "  or  say  that  we ' '  will  go  fastly ' '  on  an  errand  ? 

"How  many  flies  [wing-beats],"  he  asks,  "does 
it  take  to  cross  the  ocean?  "  "She  is  a  very  big 
schooner,"  he  also  says,  "but  she  does  n't  schoon 
very  fast." 

"Don't  you  fink,"  he  asks,  "that  I  fit  my  new 
clothes  pretty  good?" 

I  believe  it  is  said  that  we  most  betray  the 
breadth  and  accuracy  of  our  thought  by  our 
choice  of  adjectives  and  adverbs,  and  I  do  not 
know  exactly  where  Stanley  would  stand  if  such 
a  test  were  applied  to  him.  He  certainly  shows 
fertility  of  expedient.  "Folks  can't  sleep  with 
me,"  he  carefully  explained  to  a  friend,  "because 
I  have  such  kicky  legs."  And  another  time  he 
wanted  to  go  out  with  his  sled  because  it  was 
"snowing  just  lickety  bang." 

We  sometimes  amuse  ourselves  in  our  quiet 
hours  by  thinking  what  lots  of  hard  words  we 
know  and  by  telling  what  they  mean.  Almost 


An  Adopted  Mother  231 

anything  can  be  turned  into  a  diversion  if  one 
cares  to  do  it,  and  such  recapitulations  are  very 
encouraging  to  the  youthful  mind.  "I  spelled 
'cat'  to-day  and  writed  it,"  he  announced  some 
time  ago,  "and  could  n't  do  it  yesterday.  I  fink 
that  when  you  was  just  a  little  girl,  five,  you 
know,  you  prob'ly  could  n't  do  fings  as  good  as 
me." 

March  i8th,  ipoj. — Two  of  Stanley's  play- 
mates have  been  left  motherless  within  the  past 
week,  and  it  has  made  him  think  much  of  death 
and  the  grave.  His  questions  have  been  very 
hard  to  answer  both  truthfully  and  comfortingly, 
all  the  more  because  my  own  eyes  would  fill  from 
time  to  time,  and  it  was  difficult  to  speak  serenely 
of  some  things.  He  had  such  a  terror  of  being 
"put  in  the  ground."  Luckily  I  remembered 
having  found  a  cast-off  cicada  skin  a  few  months 
ago,  and  looked  it  up.  It  was  remarkably  per- 
fect, the  only  break  being  the  little  opening  in 
the  back,  through  which  the  cicada  had  emerged, 
and  the  feet  were  still  hooked  into  the  branch 
where  the  transformation  took  place. 

With  this  by  way  of  an  object  lesson  I  told  how 
the  real  insect  was  not  there,  having  flown  away 
to  a  happier  life  than  he  had  ever  before  known. 
"In  some  such  way,  but  not  in  the  same  way,"  I 
added,  "people  who  die  leave  their  bodies  behind 
on  earth.  They  do  not  need  their  bodies  any 


232  Note-Book  of 

more,  and  do  not  care  what  becomes  of  them  after 
they  are  through  living  in  them.  It  is  the  real 
person  who  goes  to  heaven,  you  know,  not  just 
the  outside  house  or  body  in  which  he  has  been 
living.  The  body  which  he  leaves  behind  is  no 
more  the  real  person  than  your  clothing  which 
you  took  off  last  night  is  you." 

"And  then  other  folks  put  his  old  body  in  the 
ground? " 

"Yes,  dear.  Sometimes  it  is  wrapped  up  very 
carefully  and  burned,  and  the  ashes  are  put  in 
some  beautiful  spot.  Usually  it  is  put  into  a 
box,  or  coffin,  and  buried  in  the  ground,  where 
the  flowers  and  trees  can  grow  over  it,  and  the 
soft  green  grass  covers  the  place  where  the  ground 
had  been  opened  for  it.  We  take  good  care  of 
our  bodies  while  we  are  alive,  because  we  have  to 
use  them  and  must  have  them  clean  and  well,  and 
the  dead  bodies  are  put  lovingly  away  because 
they  have  been  so  useful  to  the  people  who  lived 
in  them." 

In  the  most  important  respects  my  little  lesson 
was  a  perfect  success,  for  Stanley  has  quite  lost 
his  terror  of  the  grave,  but  it  was  somewhat  of  a 
shock  to  me  when  he  nodded  understandingly  at 
the  close  and  said:  "I  know  now.  It  is  just  our 
skin  that  is  put  into  the  ground,  and  we  don't 
need  our  skin  any  more,  so  that  does  n't  matter." 

It  would  have  been  folly  to  explain  further, 
since  the  chief  object  of  the  discussion  was  at- 


An  Adopted  Mother  233 

tained,  so  I  only  said,  "Rather  more  than  the 
skin,  dear,  but  not  the  real  person,  and  it  truly 
doesn't  matter." 

March  2Oth,  1903. — I  have  spent  to-day  shop- 
ping in  our  nearest  large  city,  and  found  the  ride 
home  about  as  much  as  a  tired  mortal  could 
stand,  but  I  thought  how  it  lightened  the  parcels 
and  eased  the  way  to  remember  the  little  lad 
waiting  eagerly  for  my  return.  Such  things  come 
to  me  with  fresh  force  every  now  and  then,  mak- 
ing me  realize  how  much  richer  and  fuller  and 
sweeter  my  life  is  than  it  was  before  we  took  in 
the  homeless  child.  People  often  say  to  me,  "I 
think  you  are  doing  a  fine  thing,  and  I  hope  you 
will  have  your  reward  some  day." 

Are  they  blind?  Can  they  not  see  that  I  have 
my  reward  every  day,  and  that  Ernest  and  I 
get  more  out  of  it  than  the  child  does?  I  often 
wonder  whether  God  sees  any  particular  virtue  in 
my  adopting  the  child.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I 
were  actuated  by  the  most  absolute  selfishness, 
I  could  not  increase  my  own  happiness  more  than 
by  taking  Stanley  to  bring  up  as  my  own. 

When  I  reached  home  he  was  in  bed,  sitting  up 
with  arms  outstretched  and  eyes  aglow  to  make 
his  joyful  report.  "O,  Mother,  but  you  '11  be 
glad,"  said  he.  "I  fink  I  have  reelly  been  the 
best  boy  in  the  whole  world  to-day.  I  haven't 
been  b-a-d  once.  I  just  could  n't  have  been 


234  Note-Book  of 

better.     Have  I  been  as  good  as  God?     Just  for 
once,  you  know?  " 

March  24-th,  1903. — This  has  been  a  day  of 
sensational  developments.  For  some  time  Stan- 
ley has  been  asking  questions  along  a  line  which 
made  me  wonder  if  I  ought  to  have  a  long  and 
strictly  confidential  talk  with  him.  He  is  very 
young  to  be  told  of  the  beginning  of  life,  but  I 
would  rather  tell  a  little  child  than  to  risk  his  get- 
ting a  low  idea  of  birth.  Indeed  my  only  reason 
for  not  telling  him  of  it  some  time  since  was  the 
fear  that  he  would  be  unable  to  keep  from  talking 
of  it  to  other  children. 

I  have  kept  a  straight  face  when  he  assured  me 
that  Harry's  father  rabbit  was  going  to  hatch  out 
some  baby  rabbits  pretty  soon,  have  answered 
with  the  desired  dimensions  when  asked,  "How 
big  are  little  babies  when  they  are  first  hatched?  " 
and  have  tried  always  to  preserve  a  responsive 
and  sympathetic  attitude  when  such  subjects 
were  under  discussion.  It  has  done  me  good  to 
remember  how  young  I  was  when  my  friends 
began  telling  me  things  which  I  must  never  tell 
my  mother.  I  did  try  to  tell  her  without  break- 
ing my  promises,  but  when  I  began  edging  around 
with  my  shy  questions  I  was  always  told  to  wait 
until  I  was  a  big  girl.  It  was  a  mistake  on  her 
part,  the  second  grave  mistake  which  I  have  ever 
been  able  to  find  in  her  dealing  with  an  eager  and 


An  Adopted  Mother          235 

inquisitive  mind.  In  that  she  simply  followed 
the  custom  of  her  generation,  but  it  was  taking 
dangerous  chances. 

I  have  never  told  an  untruth  in  reply  to  a  ques- 
tion and  have  never  seemed  to  evade  replying, 
but  little  by  little  I  have  found  the  queries  coming 
nearer  the  mark.  "How  big  are  baby  whales?" 
Stanley  has  asked.  "How  big  are  they  when 
they  are  in  the  sky? " 

And  then  there  was  a  noticeable  opening  of  his 
brown  eyes  when  I  said  that  baby  whales  never 
were  there.  "God  does  n't  make  everything  in 
the  sky,  dear,"  I  said.  "He  can  make  things 
anywhere,  and  sometimes  He  makes  them  when 
people  are  looking,  only  they  cannot  see  how  He 
does  it.  They  cannot  watch  Him  making  baby 
whales  or  other  creatures  that  live  in  the  ocean, 
but  when  they  first  see  the  baby  whales  they  are 
about  as  long  as  our  bathroom." 

"Is  that  when  they  are  first  born,  Mother? 
What  does 'born'  mean?" 

"Not  quite  the  same  as  'hatched.'  We  say 
that  little  creatures  are  hatched  when  they  have 
to  break  their  way  out  of  an  egg-shell.  When 
they  come  without  any  shell  around  them  we  say 
that  they  are  'born.' 

Stanley  looked  satisfied,  so  I  began  edging 
away  from  the  subject  by  telling  how  birds  and 
fishes  were  always  hatched,  but  four-legged  crea- 
tures were  born :  that  one  reason  why  we  could 


236  Note-Book  of 

not  call  a  whale  a  fish  was  because  it  was  born, 
not  hatched,  and  that  this  was  also  the  reason 
why  bats  are  not  called  birds.  Then  I  told  him 
how  little  creatures  that  are  born  are  fed  with 
milk  from  the  mother's  body,  and  those  which 
are  hatched  are  fed  on  other  things. 

That  sufficed  for  one  day,  but  I  could  see  that 
the  subject  was  still  on  his  mind,  for  a  few  nights 
later  he  said  at  the  dinner-table:  "Mother,  I  do 
not  see  how  God  ever  gets  the  bones  inside  of 
people.  Isn't  that  the  funniest  part  of  it?  Where 
does  He  put  them  in?  " 

And  then  I  evaded  as  skilfully  as  I  could. 
"It  is  very  wonderful,"  I  said,  "and  I  do  not 
understand  all  about  it  myself.  There  will 
always  be  some  things  which  nobody  can  under- 
stand, you  know.  I  think  it  is  just  as  wonderful 
how  He  puts  the  leaves  on  the  trees,  though, 
don't  you  ?  All  winter  their  branches  are  bare  and 
brown,  but  in  spring  the  tiny  green  leaves  come  all 
over  them  and  grow  bigger  and  bigger,  yet  we  can 
look  right  at  the  tree  while  they  are  coming  out 
and  growing,  and  not  see  how  God  is  doing  it." 

"That  is  wonderful,  isn't  it?"  said  Stanley. 
"I  never  fought  about  that  before." 

Another  day  he  asked:  "Are  mothers  always 
ladies,  or  are  they  sometimes  men?  Why  are 
they  always  ladies?  " 

It  was  easy  to  answer  these  questions,  because 
when  he  had  been  reminded  how  men  had  to  earn 


An  Adopted  Mother  237 

money  in  the  stores  and  shops,  he  thought  they 
were  foolish  ones  to  ask.  I  told  him  there  were 
other  reasons,  that  men  were  not  made  to  be 
mothers  and  care  for  little  babies,  that  they  had 
their  own  work  to  do  in  the  world,  but  that  car- 
ing for  the  tiny  children  was  a  work  which  God 
had  given  to  women. 

To-day  came  the  climax.  He  had  spent  his 
afternoon  play-time  at  Harry's,  and  Harry's  home 
is  on  the  townward  corner  of  a  large  farm,  with  a 
good  variety  of  live-stock  in  the  stables.  When 
he  returned  and  we  were  having  our  usual  before- 
dinner  visit,  he  began  telling  me  about  "the  little 
baby  calfie  at  Harry's." 

Something  in  the  child's  voice  struck  me  as 
unusual,  and  I  asked  how  old  the  calf  was.  He 
said:  "It  is  n't  any  old  at  all.  It  is  just  born!  " 

It  was  evident  that  he  wanted  to  talk  freely, 
but  was  experimenting  to  see  how  far  he  could 
safely  go.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that  he  told  me 
all  about  the  birth  of  the  calf,  and  I  appeared  in- 
terested instead  of  shocked.  I  said:  "Now  you 
understand  what  is  meant  when  people  say  'born  ' 
instead  of  'hatched/  Don't  you  know,  I  told 
you,  but  you  could  n't  seem  to  understand." 

And  then  how  happy  he  was !  He  felt  that  I 
had  been  dealing  honorably  with  him  and  that  all 
was  well.  "There !  "  he  cried.  "Harry  said  that 
mothers  did  n't  know  about  such  rings,  and  you 
could  n't  tell  them  anyfing;  that  they  was  just 


238  Note-Book  of 

cross  if  you  tried  to.  But  I  knew  better!  I  knew 
my  mother  knew!  " 

The  interview  ended  with  the  agreement  that 
he  was  always  to  ask  me  about  such  things  if  he 
wanted  to  understand  better,  because  mothers 
knew  more  than  boys.  Also,  I  told  him  that  this 
was  the  way  in  which  God  wished  children  to 
learn,  and  that  I  would  prefer  he  should  not  talk 
such  things  over  with  other  people — only  with  his 
father  and  mother. 

I  feel  safe  about  him  now,  much  more  so  than 
before,  and  there  is  certainly  a  new  and  close 
bond  between  us  because  of  this  confidence. 
When  other  questions  need  to  be  answered,  I 
think  he  will  bring  them  to  me  first  of  all,  and 
the  unwholesome  mystery  and  fascination  is  dis- 
pelled. It  takes  courage,  but  it  is  the  only  safe 
way,  and  when  he  is  a  little  older  and  can  enjoy 
with  me  the  revelations  of  the  compound  micro- 
scope, I  am  sure  he  will  come  to  feel  as  I  do, 
that  the  beginning  of  life  is  an  almost  holy  subject. 

Marc/ijist,  1903. — It  would  be  unsafe  to  gen- 
eralize, but  I  am  sure  that  in  the  case  of  our  boy, 
the  constant  asking  of  questions  is  a  sign  of  great 
fatigue.  It  is  only  when  he  is  too  tired  to  think 
things  out  for  himself  that  he  wearies  others  for 
answers.  Under  those  circumstances  he  needs 
some  quiet  diversion  to  let  down  his  tension  and 
then  as  much  rest  as  can  be  secured. 


An  Adopted  Mother  239 

Strong  as  he  is,  I  see  signs  of  brain-fag  if  he  is 
in  the  least  overstimulated,  and  I  think  a  cutting 
down  of  his  long  sleeping  hours  would  change  him 
from  a  usually  sunshiny  and  comfortable  child 
into  one  decidedly  peevish  and  unreasonable.  If 
it  were  not  that  I  fear  to  make  bed  unpopular,  I 
should  tuck  him  in  for  a  long  period  of  quiet 
every  time  that  he  is  irritable. 

One  of  to-day's  questions  is  worth  noting 
down.  It  was  apropos  of  the  present  kite  craze. 
"Mother,"  said  he,  "if  you  tied  a  strong  string 
to  me,  would  I  go  up  in  the  air? " 

April  ist,  1903. — Such  fun  as  we  have  had  with 
our  April  Fool  jokes  to-day!  Stanley  is  not 
exactly  an  adept  at  it  yet,  and  we  have  had  to 
jump  and  exclaim  over  such  assertions  as:  "O, 
Father!  There  is  a  dreadful  great  alligator  on 
the  back  of  your  neck!  "  and  "O,  Mother,  look 
out !  You  most  stepped  on  a  boom-constructor 
then."  True  to  his  ruling  passion,  most  of  his 
jokes  have  been  zoological.  He  must  have 
worked  in  several  good-sized  menageries  in  the 
course  of  the  day. 

After  breakfast  he  came  with  reverent  manner 
to  ask:  "Mother,  would  it  be  right  for  me — just 
one  day,  you  know — to  try  to  fool  God?  Do 
you  s'pose  I  could?  " 

I  wish  I  could  follow  accurately  the  workings  of 
his  busy  little  mind.  I  have  never  had  very 


240  Note-Book  of 

solemn  conversations  with  him  about  such  sub- 
jects, and  I  fear  am  very  far  from  the  type  of 
mother  I  used  to  find  described  on  the  pages  of 
my  Sunday-school  books,  but  I  am  pleased  and 
surprised  to  find  how  constantly  God  is  taken 
into  the  reckoning.  I  do  not  mean  that  flip- 
pantly. I  mean  that  the  little  lad  seems  always 
conscious  of  the  existence  of  God  and  loves  to 
think  of  Him,  although  often  in  very  crude  and 
imperfect  fashion.  As  for  that,  I  suppose  we  all 
have  but  crude  conceptions  of  our  Creator. 

"O,  Mother,"  he  said  the  other  day,  "there 
is  such  a  slippery  pond  in  our  school  yard.  I 
stepped  out — did  n't  know  't  was  there — slipped 
— went  down  just  bizzing  !  You  'd  have  slipped 
down,  too,  if  you  'd  been  there,  or  Father.  Even 
God  would,  I  know.  He  just  could  n't  help  it 
when  it  is  so  slippery  ! ' ' 

And  again,  when  he  went  off  to  play,  I  said, 
"Keep  my  boy  dry." 

"Yes,  God  will  and  I  will,"  was  the  startling 
reply.  "Bofe  of  us,  you  know!  " 

April  jrd,  1903. — I  have  an  excellent  house- 
keeper at  last,  and  Stanley  and  I  celebrated  our 
freedom  by  going  polliwogging. 

April  6th,  1903. — One  of  the  hardest  questions 
to  deal  with  is  this  abominable  sentimentalism 
between  boys  and  girls.  I  had  not  foreseen  that 


An  Adopted  Mother  241 

it  would  become  a  vital  matter  in  our  home  be- 
fore Stanley  reached  his  sixth  birthday,  but  every 
now  and  then  he  says  things  which  betray  how 
much  the  boys  of  the  primary  grades  talk  about 
kissing  girls,  and  discuss  the  propriety  of  playing 
with  girls.  I  have  taken  the  ground  that  there  is 
no  reason  why  little  boys  and  girls  should  not  kiss 
if  they  love  each  other  very  dearly,  but  that  I 
think  it  best  for  all  children  to  save  their  kisses 
for  the  people  in  their  homes. 

I  had  a  talk  with  Stanley's  teacher  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  find  that  she  has  taken  quite  the  oppo- 
site course,  meeting  all  complaints  of  threatened 
kissings  from  the  girls,  and  squelching  all  boast- 
ings on  the  part  of  the  boys,  with  a  stern  "1  wish 
to  hear  nothing  more  about  this  silliness."  I 
have  such  respect  for  her  judgment  that  I  wonder 
if  I  have  been  wrong.  I  know  she  could  not  say 
to  her  pupils  what  I  say  to  Stanley,  and  yet  I 
have  seen  good  effects  in  him  from  my  teachings. 
It  is  increasingly  evident  to  me  that  the  best 
thing  for  a  boy  is  a  sister  and  the  best  thing  for  a 
girl  is  a  brother,  so  that  in  the  free  and  normal 
companionship  of  the  home  these  nonsensical  and 
unwholesome  ideas  may  die  a  natural  death.  We 
shall  certainly  have  to  adopt  a  little  daughter 
before  many  years ! 

I  am  sure  that  there  is  no  situation  in  which 
children  can  hear  remarks  about  being  "little 
sweethearts,"  or  small  boys  having  "girls,"  with- 

16 


242  Note-Book  of 

out  mischief  coming  of  it.  Even  asking  small 
friends  to  stand  side  by  side,  so  that  their  admir- 
ing elders  may  "see  what  a  pretty  couple  they 
make,"  is  unwholesome. 

To-day  it  was  a  condition  and  not  a  theory 
which  confronted  me.  Stanley's  former  neighbor 
and  playmate,  Anita,  is  visiting  in  town  and  came 
to  spend  the  day  with  him.  He  really  loves  her 
very  dearly  and  she  reciprocates.  She  was  sup- 
posed to  return  to  her  uncle's  at  four  o'clock. 
At  about  that  time  they  came  in  to  where  I  was 
sitting.  "I  've  got  to  go  home,"  said  Anita. 

"She  has  to  go,"  echoed  Stanley,  leaning 
against  my  shoulder. 

Anita  turned  her  head  away  and  became  deeply 
interested  in  Stanley's  playthings.  Stanley  sat 
on  the  edge  of  a  chair  and  rocked  violently. 
"Mother,"  he  said.  "K-i-s-s  !  You  know  ! 
B-o-y-s  1-o-v-e  g-i-r-1-s.  You  know!" 

I  said:  "All  right." 

He  tiptoed  over  and  whispered  to  me.  "Very 
well, ' '  I  replied.  ' '  Kiss  her  good-by. ' ' 

"Mother,  how  do  you  spell  'Anita  '?  " 

I  spelled  it. 

"That 's  too  long.  I  can't  'member,"  said  he. 
"Anita!  Now  N.  stands  for  your  name.  .  .  . 
N.  1-o-v-e  k-i-s-s!  " 

Anita  looked  coyly  away,  wriggled,  and  bit  the 
end  of  one  of  her  curls,  but  the  outline  of  her 
cheek  showed  that  she  was  smiling. 


An  Adopted  Mother  243 

"You  tell  her,  Mother,"  said  Stanley. 

"Stanley  wishes  to  kiss  you  good-by,  dear,"  I 
said.  "You  will  let  him,  won't  you?" 

"Uh-huh!" 

"All  right,  -Stanley,  why  don't  you?"  But 
Stanley  had  dived  into  a  pile  of  sofa  cushions  and 
was  kicking  violently.  I  thought  the  presence  of 
a  third  party  might  be  the  cause  of  trouble,  so  I 
went  up-stairs.  I  was  quickly  brought  down  by 
his  calling  in  a  distressed  tone:  "  Mother! 
Mother!  Anita  's  going,  and — you  know!  " 

So  I  came  down  in  the  most  comfortably  mat- 
ter-of-fact way  possible.  "  Oh,  yes,"  I  said. 
"Stanley  wants  to  kiss  you,  does  n't  he?  Let 
me  kiss  you  first  and  then  he  may." 

So  I  kissed  her,  and  then  he,  with  radiant  and 
awed  face,  embraced  her  and  kissed  her  fat  cheek. 
And,  womanlike,  she  was  radiant  too. 

April  zotk,  1903. — "  O,  Mother,  Mother, 
Mother !  I  have  had  such  fun !  Harry  has  a 
little  baby  calfie  and  lots  of  little  white  chickens 
—  just  the  cutest  little  fmgs.  They  all  have 
mothers,  but  they  have  no  fathers  whatever. 
Is  n't  that  too  bad?  But  s'posing  they  had  no 
mothers?  I  tell  you  it  's  a  pretty  good  fing  they 
have  mothers. 

"And,  Mother,  Harry  is  going  to  have  some 
better  hens,  just  dandy  ones,  all  roosters,  you 
know.  Not  even  Plymouth  Rocks,  but  roosters !" 


244  Note-Book  of 

Easter  Monday,  ipoj. — Stanley  wrote  his  first 
letter  to-day,  not  so  long  or  profound  an  epistle, 
but  very  creditable  and  characteristic.  I  had  to 
dictate  the  spelling  of  some  words,  otherwise  it  was 
entirely  his  own.  It  was  acknowledging  an  assort- 
ment of  Easter  eggs  which  some  thoughtful  older 
boys,  brothers,  sent  to  him.  "I  thank  you,"  he 
said,  "for  my  lovely  Easter  eggs,  and  when  I  am 
a  big  boy  I  am  going  to  be  very  good  to  little 
boys. ' '  In  talking  it  over  with  me  later,  he  added, 
"and  I  shall  always  be  just  sweet  to  girls." 

I  wish  that  I  might  have  a  picture,  a  moving 
picture,  of  Stanley  in  the  joyful  throes  of  com- 
position. He  has  his  own  diminutive  desk  and 
chair,  and  was  so  overwhelmed  with  pride  that  he 
paused  and  kicked  joyously  at  the  end  of  every 
word.  Once  he  left  his  desk  and  turned  a  som- 
ersault. Yet  there  will  probably  be  a  time  when 
letter-writing  seems  a  bore  and  he  begrudges  dic- 
tating a  few  phrases  to  a  stenographer.  I  only 
hope  it  will  always  be  a  matter  of  course  with 
him,  this  promptly  acknowledging  all  gifts  and 
favors.  It  is  not  so  much  the  etiquette  of  the 
matter,  although  that  is  important  enough,  but  I 
am  sure  that  the  habit,  like  that  of  saying  "Thank 
you"  and  the  less  common  one  of  asking  a  bless- 
ing on  our  food,  keeps  the  appreciative  spirit 
alive  within  us. 

The  eggs  I  distributed  around  the  house,  and 
before  church  Easter  morning  I  let  Stanley  take  a 


An  Adopted  Mother  245 

basket  and  hunt  them.  It  was  a  very  happy  ex- 
perience for  him,  and  I  am  glad  to  record  the  way 
in  which  he  volunteered  to  "pass  the  kindness 
on."  Ernest  was  not  feeling  well,  and  said  he 
could  not  take  his  usual  Sunday  afternoon  walk 
into  the  country  with  reading  matter  for  a  certain 
cripple.  I  said  I  would  go  instead,  but  Stanley 
spoke  up.  "Let  me  go,"  he  said.  "I  know  the 
way  and  I  will  tend  right  to  business.  You 
need  n't  worry  about  me  any.  And  I  fink  I  will 
take  him  my  best  Easter  egg.  I  have  so  many, 
you  know,  and  it  might  make  his  back  feel  better." 

The  day  was  bleak,  and  Ernest  would  have  said 
"No"  at  once  if  I  had  not  signalled  him  to  con- 
sent. Better  have  him  get  a  bit  tired  and  cold  in 
walking  his  mile  than  to  check  such  a  generous 
impulse.  We  fitted  him  out  with  a  parcel  of 
papers  in  each  overcoat  pocket,  and  a  box  con- 
taining cotton  and  the  precious  egg  clutched 
tightly  in  both  hands.  He  looked  so  small  and 
chubby  that  we  both  turned  back  from  the  door 
with  moist  eyes.  "Our  little  boy  is  growing 
up,"  said  I. 

"Did  you  ever  know  such  manliness?"  said 
Ernest.  And  then,  partly  I  believe,  to  subdue 
his  own  feeling,  he  laughed  at  me  and  said  I  was 
scheming  in  a  new  way  for  a  tiny  girl  from  the 
School. 

There  is  nothing  more  to  record  except  that  he 
came  back  promptly  and  had  executed  his  errand 


246  Note-Book  of 

all  right.  ' '  They  liked  the  papers, ' '  he  exclaimed, 
"but  they  fought  the  egg  was  the  nicest  part. 
They  said  it  was  the  very  best  one  they  ever  saw, 
and  was  rit  it  nice  that  I  had  it  to  give  to  that 
poor,  poor  man?" 

April  2Oth,  ipoj. — I  doubt  if  any  child  who  has 
never  been  homeless  and  motherless  can  appreci- 
ate home  and  parents  with  the  same  ardor  as  one 
who  has  had  such  a  sad  experience.  Stanley  has 
been  with  us  almost  a  year,  and  the  wonder  and 
delight  of  it  do  not  seem  to  grow  less  to  him. 
Even  now  he  often  comes  rushing  home  from 
school  to  hug  and  kiss  me  and  say:  "Oh,  but 
I  'm  glad  that  I  have  a  mother!  "  And  when  he 
is  hurt  or  grieved  by  anything  which  has  hap- 
pened, his  first  remark  is  usually :  "But  I  tell  you 
it  is  a  good  fing  I  have  a  mother !  And  a  father ! 
And  a  home!  " 

It  never  strikes  him  that  he  is  at  any  disadvan- 
tage as  compared  with  children  who  were  born 
into  their  homes,  and  indeed  I  do  not  see  that  he 
is.  He  still  thinks  that  our  relationship  was  of  his 
making.  On  last  Thanksgiving  night,  when  he 
was  overflowing  with  the  right  spirit,  after  his 
first  day  on  a  sled  of  his  own,  he  said:  "Oh, 
Mother,  are  n't  you  thankful  to  have  a  little  boy  ? " 

"Indeed  I  am,"  I  answered  heartily. 

"Let  's  see,"  he  continued.  "How  long  is  it 
since  I  got  you,  Mother? " 


An  Adopted  Mother  247 

It  is  funny,  too,  to  see  how  imagination  is  be- 
ginning to  blend  with  memory  in  his  recalling 
those  days  of  a  year  ago.  I  recently  heard  him 
telling  another  boy  of  some  things  which  he  did 
not  like  about  the  School.  "I  was  very  tired  of 
it,"  he  said,  "and  so  I  decided  to  come  here." 

He  got  into  queer  difficulties  with  his  vocabu- 
lary the  other  day,  which  showed  afresh  how  inter- 
dependent words  and  ideas  are.  He  has  asked 
me  a  great  many  times  what  it  meant  to  marry, 
and  I  have  told  him  that  when  a  man  loves  a 
woman  very  dearly,  better  than  anybody  else  in 
the  whole  world,  so  that  he  would  like  to  have 
her  with  him  always,  earning  the  money  to  buy 
what  she  needs  and  taking  care  of  her  always,  he 
may  ask  her  to  marry  him.  And  if  she  loves  him 
in  that  same  way  and  is  willing  to  care  for  his 
home  and  help  him,  she  may  say  "Yes."  Then 
they  must  stand  up  together  before  a  minister  and 
promise  these  things  out  loud  to  each  other  before 
him  and  before  God.  If  there  is  nobody  who 
knows  any  reason  why  they  should  not  marry, 
the  minister  then  says:  "I  pronounce  you  man 
and  wife.  Whom  God  has  joined  together  let  no 
man  put  asunder." 

I  have  explained  to  him  what  these  solemn 
words  mean,  and  how  after  they  are  said  the  wo- 
man has  the  same  last  name  as  the  man.  And  I 
have  called  his  attention  to  the  duties  of  home- 
making,  how  each  must  do  his  part  faithfully  if  it 


248  Note-Book  of 

is  to  be  a  happy  home,  and  how  both  should  be 
careful  always  to  keep  just  as  loving  and  thought- 
ful as  they  were  at  first.  It  was  something  of  a 
shock,  therefore,  although  his  reasoning  had  been 
good,  to  have  him  later,  when  speaking  of  his 
choice  to  be  my  little  boy,  say:  "Did  I  marry 
you  then,  Mother?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "you  adopted  me.  You  were 
not  old  enough  to  marry,  and  nobody  could 
marry  me  anyway,  because  I  was  already  married 
to  Father." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "can't  you  marry  people  what 
are  married?  But  it  's  all  right,  is  n't  it,  for  us 
to  love  each  other  and  take  care  of  each  other  and 
have  the  same  last  name?  And  it 's  just  as  sweet 
as  being  married  anyway !  " 

April  23rd,  1903. — A  busy,  happy  day.  It  is 
sweet  to  think  it  over  quietly,  now  that  its  hero  is 
off  to  the  Land  of  Nod.  It  is  the  first  anniver- 
sary of  his  coming  to  this  home,  and  has  been 
celebrated  as  his  sixth  birthday.  The  real  birth- 
day came  a  few  days  since,  and  when  he  is  older 
I  shall  explain  to  him  why  we  have  observed  this 
instead.  The  two  being  so  near  together  and  all 
our  reminiscences  being  connected  with  this,  it 
seems  wise  to  observe  it. 

I  find  that,  like  his  last  Christmas,  it  is  practi- 
cally the  first  anniversary  of  its  kind  he  has  ever 
known.  As  a  result  he  has  been  collecting  in- 


An  Adopted  Mother  249 

formation  from  all  his  associates  as  to  what  is 
proper  on  such  occasions.  He  has  insisted  that 
we  must  begin  the  day  by  giving  him  his  "birth- 
day spanks,"  and  has  wanted  me  to  practise  up 
in  advance.  He  also  took  it  for  granted  that  he 
was  to  have  a  party  of  six  invited  guests,  so  we 
resolved  to  live  up  to  his  ideas  of  what  a  birthday 
meant. 

Such  squealing  and  frolicking  as  ushered  in  the 
day !  And  then  came  the  routine,  varied  only 
by  the  taking  of  his  new  foot-ball  to  school.  Five 
little  boys  and  one  little  girl  were  invited  to  come 
here  directly  from  school,  and  not  to  come  dressed 
up.  The  one  girl  seldom  says  anything,  but  sits 
around  and  purrs  like  a  dear  little  pussy-cat,  and 
inspires  a  vast  amount  of  chivalry  in  all  the  small 
boys  of  the  neighborhood.  Mary  was  the  queen 
of  the  Christmas  party,  and  she  was  equally  de- 
ferred to  to-day.  It  does  me  good  to  notice  how 
much  gentler  the  boys  are  when  she  is  with  them. 

We  had  an  ideal  day  for  the  frolic,  and  that 
after  a  week  of  either  wet  or  bitterly  cold  weather. 
Stanley  felt  certain  that  God  had  sent  the  sun- 
shine especially  to  help  him  have  a  good  time, 
and  while  I  did  not  foster  the  idea  at  all,  I  saw  no 
use  in  denying  it. 

My  birthday  gift  to  him  was  the  clearing  out 
and  preparing  of  a  playhouse.  For  several  years 
we  had  packed  down  our  own  ice,  and  now  that 
we  no  longer  do  it  there  was  left  a  room, 


250  Note-Book  of 

accessible  from  both  within  and  without,  seven  by 
fifteen  feet,  with  cross-ventilation  from  shuttered 
windows  and  double  sawdust-filled  walls.  This  I 
furnished  with  crude  table,  seats,  and  sideboard, 
and  tacked  bright  pictures  on  the  walls.  The 
tablecloth,  if  such  it  could  be  called,  was  made  of 
bright  tissue-paper,  a  different  shade  for  each 
place. 

At  five  o'clock  I  called  the  children  together  at 
the  front  door,  and  tied  on  each  a  bow  of  ribbon 
to  match  his  place  at  the  table.  Then  the  rules 
of  the  game  were  announced :  they  were  to  find 
their  own  supper-table,  all  were  to  start  even 
when  I  gave  the  word,  nobody  was  to  go  faster 
than  a  walk,  and  the  first  one  to  find  the  supper 
was  to  call  the  rest.  They  might  go  anywhere 
on  the  place  except  into  the  doors  of  the  house 
itself. 

Stanley  was  as  much  puzzled  as  the  rest. 
Ernest,  Miss  Murray,  and  our  young  minister, 
who  happened  along  at  just  the  right  time,  saw 
them  fairly  started.  Such  strides,  such  giggles, 
and  such  a  shout  when  the  table  was  really  found ! 
And  when  Stanley  heard  that  he  was  to  have  a 
playhouse,  his  rapture  knew  no  bounds. 

I  suppose  it  was  much  like  the  orthodox  party 
from  that  time  on,  save  that  the  supper  was  rather 
more  digestible  and  the  scene  more  picturesque. 
Sandwiches,  potatoes,  lemonade,  and  all  disap- 
peared with  the  usual  rapidity,  and  even  the 


An  Adopted  Mother  251 

animal  crackers  which  had  formed  a  sort  of  Noah's 
Ark  procession  down  the  middle  of  the  table  were 
dismembered  with  neatness  and  dispatch. 

The  candy  hearts  imbedded  on  the  frosting  of 
the  cakes,  and  the  extinguishing  of  the  birthday 
candles,  took  longer,  and  then  all  flocked  out  for 
a  short  game  with  the  new  foot-ball,  a  game  in 
which  the  minister  led,  but  where  even  Mary  had 
her  turn  when  it  came  round. 

At  a  quarter  past  six  my  little  boy  was  tucked 
into  bed,  in  accordance  with  our  satisfactory  rule 
of  an  early  retiring  hour  after  parties.  I  think  he 
summed  it  all  up  in  the  happy  way  in  which  he 
sighed:  "I  fink  birfdays  are  the  very  nicest  days 
of  all!" 

Afterwards  the  old  nervous  fears  came  upon 
him  with  the  reaction  from  excitement,  and  he 
begged  me  to  stay  in  the  room.  I  wanted  to  lie 
down  for  a  bit,  and  that  was  not  possible  in  his 
room,  yet  I  agreed  to  stay  if  he  would  lie  very 
still  and  not  talk.  He  promised,  but  then,  "You 
look  very,  very  tired,"  said  he,  "and  I  will  stand 
it  alone.  You  may  go  anywhere  you  want  to. 
I  don't  b'leeve  I  '11  be  too  'fraid,  because,  you 
know,  I  am  six  years  old  now!  " 

It  reminds  me  of  his  remark  a  few  days  ago, 
when  I  said  that  I  should  miss  having  a  five-year- 
old  boy,  and  he  replied  quite  seriously:  "But  I 
fink  you  will  feel  better  when  you  have  a  six- 
year-old  boy,  because,  you  know,  I  can  take 


252  Note-Book  of 

much  better  care  of  you  then."  Evidently  other 
considerations  also  have  weight  with  him,  for 
after  he  had  been  visiting  with  me  for  a  long  time 
he  hurriedly  arose,  gave  me  a  parting  hug,  and 
said:  "I  fink  I  'd  better  hustle  off  and  roll  my 
hoop  before  I  grow  to  be  a  man." 

Truly,  it  does  one  good  to  mark  the  anniver- 
saries, and  I  have  been  sitting  beside  my  sleeping 
boy  and  thinking  what  changes  the  year  has  made 
in  him.  He  has  gained  five  inches  in  height  and 
ten  pounds  in  weight,  has  exchanged  his  baby  fat 
for  the  firmest  of  muscle,  has  bright  color  instead 
of  marked  pallor,  has  almost  wholly  conquered 
his  old  timidity,  has  made  fine  progress  in  learn- 
ing to  rule  his  temper,  has  done  a  year's  excellent 
work  in  the  public  school,  and  has  reached  a  point 
where  corporal  punishment  seems  to  be  quite  a 
thing  of  the  past  and  he  can  be  governed  by  the 
mildest  measures.  He  has  nobly  fulfilled  his  early 
promise  to  take  good  care  of  the  parents  whom 
he  adopted,  and  he  has  been  the  light  of  our 
home. 

May  ipth,  1903. — Before  I  was  awake  yesterday 
morning  there  came  a  gentle  tap  on  my  door  and 
Stanley's  voice:  " Mother,  O,  Mother!  Is  this 
reelly  the  day  that  Sidney  's  coming?" 

When  I  let  him  in  and  he  was  sure  that  it  was 
true,  such  kickings  and  squealings  of  pure  delight ! 
Somersaults  done  in  pajamas  with  feet  are 


An  Adopted  Mother  253 

peculiarly  effective  when  the  pajamas  have  been 
made  with  liberal  allowance  for  growth  —  the 
extra-length  legs  flap  so  engagingly  at  every 
turn. 

When  I  finally  suggested  getting  dressed  for 
breakfast,  Stanley  demurred.  "I  don't  want  to 
get  dressed,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  want  any 
breakfast  or  any  dinner  or  any  supper.  I  don't 
want  to  go  to  school  or  to  play  with  the  other 
fellows.  All  I  want  to  do  is  to  sit  on  the  edge  of 
the  sidewalk  all  day  and  think  about  my  brother." 

We  had  received  notice  to  meet  the  attendant 
who  was  bringing  Sidney  to  us  at  another  town 
some  twenty  miles  away,  and  this  would  keep  me 
all  day  and  bring  me  back  after  Stanley  was  ready 
for  bed.  Nothing  else  availed  until  I  fell  back  on 
my  good  old  argument  that  that  waiting-time 
seems  shortest  and  is  happiest  when  we  are  doing 
our  work  just  as  well  as  we  know  how.  He  went 
to  school  in  tears,  but  he  went,  and  after  that  the 
comfort  of  routine  duties  held  him  secure. 

There  is  not  much  to  write  of  the  day.  Sidney 
was  radiantly  happy,  quite  nervous,  and  had  been 
too  excited  to  eat  much  breakfast  or  dinner,  so 
the  first  sign  of  returning  balance  was  a  tremend- 
ous appetite.  Ernest  had  run  away  from  business 
to  keep  me  company  during  what  promised  to  be 
a  somewhat  tedious  day,  and  we  had  a  happy 
time.  Sidney's  pathetic  little  bagful  of  treasures 
had  to  be  opened  and  displayed  to  us,  his  plain 


254  Note-Book  of 

and  meagre  wardrobe,  his  tooth-brush,  his  New 
Testament,  and  the  two  letters  I  had  written  him 
while  he  was  at  the  School.  One  was  written  last 
February  and  has  been  his  chief  treasure  ever 
since,  although  it  was  not  until  long  after  that  he 
knew  he  was  to  come  to  us. 

It  was  not  until  we  reached  the  home  station 
that  the  situation  became  dramatic.  During  our 
short  walk  home  he  scanned  every  house  in  the 
gathering  darkness,  asking:  "Is  this  our  house? 
Is  ours  a  pretty  good  house?  Is  it  large?  "  And 
when  we  came  to  it  he  could  hardly  wait  for  the 
latch-key  to  be  turned  and  let  him  in.  Then,  in 
true  boy-fashion,  he  let  out  a  joyous  "Whoop- 
ee! "  which  was  answered  from  above,  where  the 
boys'  new  room  was  occupied  for  the  first  time, 
and  a  fat  little  figure  in  pajamas  appeared  on  the 
upper  landing.  How  those  boys  hugged  !  White 
arms  and  black  arms  were  all  tangled  up,  and 
white  legs  and  black  legs  waved  ecstatically  in  the 
air  as  they  kissed  and  hugged  and  giggled,  and 
kissed  again.  It  was  worth  living  five  years  to 
see! 

Then  Ernest  and  I  went  up-stairs  with  them, 
and  while  Sidney  was  made  ready  for  bed  Stanley 
rushed  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  hugging,  kiss- 
ing, and  occasionally  stopping  long  enough  to 
turn  a  somersault.  I  am  sure  that  the  last  mis- 
giving vanished  from  Ernest's  heart  in  those  bliss- 
ful moments.  When  the  two  boys  knelt  beside 


An  Adopted  Mother  255 

me  for  their  prayer,  they  found  that  they  used 
different  forms.  Sidney  said  his  alone,  and  then 
both  joined  in  "Our  Father."  Stanley  amended 
his  to  suit  the  new  circumstances,  saying:  "Bless 
my  father  and  my  mother,  bless  me  some,  too, 
and  Sidney.  Help  me  to  be  a  good  boy.  Help 
Sidney  to  be  a  good  boy.  Help  me  to  grow  up  a 
good  man.  Help  Sidney  to  grow  up  a  good  man. 
Help  everybody  to  grow  up  a  good  man.  Amen." 
Two  bearish  hugs,  one  from  either  side,  and  I 
was  free  to  go  down-stairs  and  leave  them.  In- 
stead I  sat  in  the  hall  outside,  in  the  dark,  listening 
to  the  happy  ripple  of  voices,  which  it  would  have 
been, cruel  to  forbid.  The  boys  had  no  idea  that 
I  was  there.  One  thing  which  pleased  me  was 
that  Sidney's  coming  did  not  make  Stanley  a 
whit  less  loyal  or  demonstrative  toward  the  rest 
of  his  little  circle.  Even  dear  old  battered  Helen 
was  not  neglected.  "She  is  my  dolly,  Sidney," 
he  explained,  "and  she  always  goes  to  bed  with 
me.  You  fink  it  's  all  right  for  boys  to  have 
dolls,  don't  you?  Then  she  can  be  yours  some, 
too.  She  used  to  belong  to  our  mother  when 
she  was  a  little  girl.  That  's  what  makes  her  so 
wobbly.  Mother  says  she  has  played  with  so 
many  children  that  she  is  tired,  so  she  likes  to  be 
in  bed.  Only  when  I  get  very  sleepy  I  lay  her 
out,  so  I  won't  forget  and  roll  on  top  of  her. 
O,  Sidney,  let  's  kiss  some  more!  Don't  you 
fink  kissing  is  more  fun  than  going  to  sleep? " 


256  Note-Book  of 

"I  tell  you  what,  Stanley,  you  must  help  me 
find  things  to  do  for  our  mother.  I  know  one 
thing.  We  will  make  our  own  beds  every  morn- 
ing. I  will  show  you  how  to  help.  And  we  can 
dress  ourselves,  and  I  will  help  you  part  your 
hair." 

"Yes,  all  right.  I  do  fings  for  her,  but  you  are 
older  and  can  do  more  fings.  You  may  have 
half  my  toys,  and  I  have  six  cents  saved  to  buy 
you  fings.  What  do  you  want?  " 

' '  Gee  whiz !     I  don't  know ! ' ' 

"Sidney,  you  must  n't  swear!  " 

"  'Gee  whiz'  ain't  swearing.  It  's  only  talking 
to  your  horses.  You  know  you  say  'Gee'  to 
them.  And  when  you  say  'Jiminy  crickets' 
you  're  just  talking  to  your  crickets,  so  that  is  all 
right." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  swearing,  but  anyway 
it  is  the  sort  of  word  Mother  does  n't  like  boys  to 
say,  and  I  '11  help  you  'member  not  to  say  it. 
Every  time  you  start  to  say  'Gee'  I  '11  tell  you  to 
stop." 

"What  does  she  do  to  you  if  you  say  it?  Does 
she  whip  you? " 

"Uh-uh!  She  doesn't  whip  you.  She  says 
'You  must  learn  not  to  say  that.'  ' 

"But  what  does  she  do?" 

"I  told  you  what  she  does.  She  says,  'You 
must  learn  not  to  say  that,'  and  then  you  learn 
and  she  helps  you  'member.  I  '11  show  you  all 


An  Adopted  Mother  257 

about  everyfing  in  the  morning.  We  have  the 
biggest  house.  And  I  '11  show  you  our  church." 

"Do  you  go  to  church?  Will  you  take  me 
some  time? " 

"Take  you  next  Sunday.  Course  we  always 
go,  all  of  us.  Sunday-school,  too.  Church  is 
pretty  long,  but  you  '11  like  it.  [This  was  a 
pleasant  surprise  to  the  eavesdropper.]  And 
sometimes  we  go  down  to  the  church  Saturday 
afternoons  and  take  lots  of  flowers  to  make  it 
pretty,  and  I  help.  Mother  can't  do  it  very  well 
without  me,  and  now  you  can  help  too.  And  O, 
Sidney,  you  ought  to  see  our  cat !  He  is  the 
biggest  one  you  ever  saw,  and  he  is  just  hand- 
some. He  is  a  tiger  with  some  white  on  him." 

"A  tiger!     Ain't  you  afraid  of  him?" 

"Uh-uh!  Course  he  isn't  a  tiger  tiger,  just  a 
tiger  cat — kind  of  streaked,  you  know.  But  this 
is  the  best  place.  There  is  n't  a  bear  around 
here !  Not  one  in  town  !  Mother  says  so.  And 
there  is  n't  any  up  norf  where  we  go  in  the  sum- 
mers, either!  Only  skunks,  but  they  are  all  right 
if  you  don't  bother  them,  and  they  usually  sleep 
daytimes  anyway.  Ain't  you  glad  you  don't 
have  to  be  afraid  of  bears? " 

"I  'm  not  afraid  of  bears  any  more  now,  Stan- 
ley. I  tell  you  what  we  've  got  at  the  School. 
We  've  got  a  tame  frog,  and  we  feed  him,  and  we 
put  him  in  the  fountain  and  he  swims  around 
like " 


258  Note-Book  of 

"O,  Sidney,  you  must  not  say  that!  That  is 
a  very  bad  swear!  Ever  and  ever  so  much 
worser  'n  'Gee  whiz/  You  must  be  sure  not  to 
say  it  any  more." 

"That  is  n't  a  bad  word.  It  can't  be  swearing. 
It  is  in  my  Bible.  I  '11  find  it  for  you  to-mor- 
row." 

"Perhaps  it  is  in  your  Bible,  but  it  is  a  swear 
the  way  you  said  it  anyhow.  You  ask  Mother  if 
it  is  not.  She  says  words  are  different  different 
places.  I  heard  it  in  church  last  Sunday,  but  it 
was  all  right  then.  It  's  all  right  when  a  minister 
is  preaching  if  he  says  it  like  this — 'HELL'  [very 
dispassionately,  slowly,  and  solemnly],  but  any 
other  way  is  swearing." 

"Gee  whiz,  I  did  n't  know " 

"You  said  'Gee  whiz'!" 

"Did  I?  I  did  n't  know  it.  Well,  I  did  n't 
know  about  that  other  word,  but  I  won't  say  it 
anyhow." 

"And  I  '11  help  you  'member  about  all  these 
fings,  and  O,  Sidney,  come  on,  let  's  kiss  each 
other  some  more!  " 

And  so  it  went  for  almost  two  hours,  until  I 
felt  that  I  must  check  the  talking  and  get  them 
asleep.  There  was  much  said  to  make  me  happy, 
although  there  were  also  the  expected  revelations 
of  work  in  store  before  the  new  boy  could  equal 
his  younger  brother  in  many  respects.  He  is  just 
as  bright  and  of  as  great  promise,  and  after  all  I 


An  Adopted  Mother  259 

doubt  whether  any  other  work  is  so  fascinating, 
to  me  at  least,  as  this  same  thorough  business  of 
child-training.  I  cannot  imagine  that  there  would 
be  much  pleasure  or  profit  in  going  about  it  in  any 
half-way  fashion. 

This  morning  the  boys  awakened  at  four,  and 
visited  in  whispers  and  giggles  until  six,  when 
they  came  down  washed  and  dressed  and  ready 
for  the  day.  All  is  well  with  them  and  the  home ; 
new  possibilities  of  work  and  play,  and,  best  of 
all,  of  helpful  love,  open  up  before  us,  and  it  is 
truly  a  cause  of  thanksgiving  from  us  to  Him  who 
"setteth  the  solitary  in  families." 

THE   END 


UNIVEKSTTY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
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